As You Are Now, So Once Was I
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Sequel to “All the King’s Horses.” When Dean catches J.J.’s press conference on the news about a current case and notices a few...inconsistencies, he realizes the BAU is definitely going to need his help. Again.
1. Part I

Well, shit. Now look what y'all have made me do. Curse you and your inspiring comments!

By the way, since I painted myself into a corner by saying Dean hadn't talked to Prentiss or anyone else for at least four years by the time of last story's culmination, this is taking place like wayyy in the future. We'll just pretend the world is exactly the same as nowadays, yeah?

* * *

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

**Part I

* * *

**

_April 10, 2017, 11:10 P.M.  
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield  
Edgefield, South Carolina_

Dean is busy folding sheets across from another inmate when he hears it. She'd only said a few words to him, all of them meant to get a rise, but he's good with voices. In his line of work—_previous_ line of work—he'd had to be good with memorizing things like that. Pathetically often, it was the demarcation between life and death.

Slowly, he looks up at the grainy, small TV screen mounted on the wall, and yes, it's definitely her. The subtitle that the news channel has so helpfully provided reminds Dean that her name is SSA Jennifer Jareau, media liaison for the BAU. She looks virtually the same as last time Dean'd seen her; her hair's a little longer, and her face is starting to (albeit faintly) show the stress of her job, but overall, it might as well have been yesterday she was with the rest of her team visiting him.

"What can you tell us about how the victims were killed?" pipes up a media hound, and Dean tries not to look so interested.

"Well, we—"

"Rumor is, the latest woman had every bone broken in her body but her house was locked from the inside," shouts another one. "Is that true?"

Dean doubts anyone else could see it, but he notices the split-second hesitation she gives, the slight downturn of her mouth, and knows that however the lemming had achieved the intel, it's correct.

"When we get more information on the crimes, we'll let you all know," J.J. says cagily, and if Dean had it in him to grin at the response, he would. "For now, just make sure someone knows where you are at all times, and do a cursory check of your home before you go to bed. If you think something is awry—more than the usual misplacing—call the tip line we've set up. Thank you."

There's, inevitably, a barrage of questions for her, and a billion flashing bulbs, but J.J. takes it all in stride, walking off the platform with precision. Dean would normally just write the whole thing off as a regular, run-of-the-mill news story, but something about the media clown's question, the one that J.J. had avoided, stirs something in his mind. He's not quite sure what, but he intends to find out.

Emily had been true to her word and, in telling the Federal Bureau of Prisons that Dean had been invaluable to their investigation, he was able to be moved to a medium-security facility. He'd requested to have as solitary a cell as possible, and thankfully, he'd been granted that. Unfortunately, it didn't hold insofar as he doesn't have to participate in communal rec time and chores, but at least he has a four-inch thick mattress this time, and doesn't have to be cuffed every time he's let out of his cell.

Initially, it'd obviously been the intention of the other prisoners to try and do some kind of hazing ritual to Dean, especially given he hadn't so much as said one word to any other inmate. (And that even in as dark a place as Dean's mentality is now, he's still prettier than the other prisoners, which tends to make them disgruntled.) What they hadn't bet on, however, was that just because Dean's got a proportioned face doesn't mean he's not had paramilitary training. To say he sent the head of the gang out of commission for a while is a nice way of putting it. He was sucker punched by one of the guards for his actions, but apart from that, he'd been left alone.

Dean makes up his mind. It's not really all that hard. If it weren't about something the BAU is doing, if it weren't for his hunter instincts lighting up like the Fourth of July, he'd just ignore it. But he's never ignored his gut in his life, and even after…everything…that isn't going to change, if he has anything to say about it.

So he looks up at the man across from him, whose jumpsuit IDs him as 13192, and holds out a pack of cigarettes. (Just because Dean doesn't communicate with anyone doesn't mean his Hold 'Em skills are any worse.) "Pack for your comp time," he offers, thinking that at least in this instance, his low and scratchy voice works to his benefit.

13192 manages to withhold being startled, and peers at Dean in scrutiny. "What you need it for?" he demands, pausing.

"Don't ask and I'll make it two," Dean antes, setting down another pack on the table.

13192 gives him a gritty smile and pulls the cigarettes towards him. "Knock yourself out, pretty boy," he replies. "You crazy, you know that? You weird."

Dean stops himself from putting a fist in the guy's nose, just takes the transaction. They are only allowed ten minutes on the computer every week, but Dean's been doing research his entire life. He can do a hell of a lot in only twenty minutes.

* * *

_April 7, 2017, 10:23 P.M.  
F.B.I., Behavioral Analysis Unit  
Quantico, Virginia_

J.J. waits until each member of the team sits at their unofficial places around the table, each of them reflexively opening the files and skimming them for a few seconds before deferring to her. Satisfied that she has at least the majority of their attention (she thinks Morgan and Prentiss are still mourning their respective Friday nights cut short by being called in), she turns to the screen. A few clicks of the remote later, six pictures appear, three of them showing the victims prior to death, and the other three documenting the crime scenes.

"Manistique, Michigan, population thirty-five hundred," J.J. begins. "County P.D. requested our help after they discovered the third body in a string of deaths they can't quite figure out."

"Deaths?" Emily catches on with a frown. "We don't know if these are homicides?"

J.J. gives a frustrated shrug. "Not for sure, but considering the way they died is pretty much impossible to be self-inflicted or by chance, they're guessing there's an unsub."

"What other information do you have for us?" Hotch asks, veering J.J. onto a path she knows well.

And, predictably, she looks much more at ease doing so. "The third victim, Kari Jansen, was found this morning," she says, pointing to a redheaded woman. "Before that, there was Amita Levin—found twelve days ago—and Zachary Beltway, found six days ago."

"That's not much of a cooling off period," Rossi observes, humoring the supposition of a serial killer. "Less than a week between murders."

"Looks like it might be a pattern, though," Morgan inputs, chewing on a pen cap. "That could be an advantage for us."

Emily makes a noise of reluctant dissent. "I don't know, three victims isn't necessarily a pattern. Plus, it looks like the unsub's not preferential to sex or age. Jansen's twenty-seven, Levin's eighteen, Beltway's forty-two. This is going to make profiling a lot harder." To J.J., Emily inquires, "What do we know about how they died?"

"Lucky us, we get more problems," she replies. "Each had a different manner of death. Every one of Jansen's bones was broken, but her house was locked from the inside—no forced entry, no indications she unlocked the doors at all before going to bed. Levin had internal bleeding, and her heart was stabbed five times, but she had no outer wounds, except for a scar from an atrial septum surgery when she was a baby. And Beltway's lungs were filled with water, as if he drowned. Same composition of water as in Lake Michigan."

"Well, that's not that weird," Reid says hopefully. "There are three and a half thousand drowning-related deaths a year, and over seven hundred boating-related ones. Even more when you factor in homicide. Also, Beltway's a male: statistically, they're four times as likely to drown than females."

"'A lot' would've sufficed just as well," Morgan suggests, glaring at Reid, who looks thoroughly unashamed.

J.J. sighs, ignoring Morgan's input. "Except that the security cameras from his apartment, which show him entering, never saw him coming out, let alone to the lakefront."

Quietude embraces everyone as they try to come up with answers, but no one can produce anything. Reid tries, but he only gets so far as to give a statistic and then the beginnings of a science fiction book plot before Morgan throws a pen at his face.

Amply out of options with the paper aspect of the case, Hotch stands up. "All right. Thirty minutes and we're in the air."

Well accustomed to the drill, they all sort together their folders and head off to make sure everything is packed, each one having a feeling this case'll be a bewildering one.

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 9:45 A.M.  
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield – Recreation Room  
Edgefield, South Carolina_

When Dean's cell block gets let out for rec time, he bypasses the gym equipment and the library, going straight for one of two computers they have there. Strictly speaking, the internet is only for things like sending emails (screened of course) or doing college correspondence courses, but Dean assumes news sites are harmless enough. That's not to say Dean couldn't hack into a database in about ten seconds, but for right now, he doesn't need to do so.

The earliest article is from a week ago, with few details, but Dean does find some viable enough information. Like, for instance, the general nature of how the victims died, what their names were, their basic stats. He doesn't see any connection between them, but that's not unusual. What _is_ unusual is everything surrounding their demises. More worrisome is how many articles there are, given how damn tiny the city is.

**Lake Michigan City Officials Stumped**_  
Three victims and no one knows what's going on?_

**Manistique Calls in F.B.I.**_  
Townspeople fear for their lives as agents have no leads._

**Work of a Serial Killer?**_  
Crimes are too difficult to decipher for the police. Are we safe?_

**Latest North Michigan Victim Discovered Drowned**_  
Inside sources say no one saw him go out to the lake._

**Agent Jennifer Jareau: "When We Get More Information, We'll Let You Know."**_  
And when will that be, Agent? How many more people are going to die?_

Dean has a feeling J.J. is used to this kind of thing, but small town gossip is often more dangerous than serial killers. To make matters worse, that nagging voice in his head that says the crimes remind him of something nearly drives him insane, the answer right at the tip of his tongue. It isn't until he's going on eighteen minutes of computer time that it hits him.

"Ah, fuck," Dean mutters to himself. Playing devil's advocate, he tries to think of another way this could go down, but he can't. Which means that he's going to be in for a really, _really_ annoying series of events.

Closing all the internet windows, he walks over to the guard hesitantly. Looking completely disinterested, the guard barks a "What do you want, Winchester?" at him, hand twitching minutely towards his taser.

"I need to make a phone call," says Dean. The guard doesn't look remotely surprised Dean's talking.

"To who?" asks the guard, now frowning. Far as he can tell, Dean doesn't have anyone living _to_ call.

Dean almost wants to smirk. "Special Agent Emily Prentiss, FBI," he answers, bringing out the business card she'd given him four years ago that he'd kept. It's crinkled, but the name is still very legible. As is the official government seal and the prestigious division of the BAU.

The guard's eyebrows raise, clearly questioning how in the world Dean'd gotten a hold of the card. It's not the first time he's had a prisoner claim to want to talk to officials, but it _is_ the first time he's had a prisoner be in possession of legitimate proof of previous contact. Then he remembers how Dean came into the prison in the first place.

"What's this about?" he inquires. "You really think they're gonna grant you another favor for your supposedly good detective work? Think again, boy."

Dean shrugs. "Doesn't matter what I'm calling about," he answers. "Last time I checked, an FBI agent is a perfectly reasonable person to contact. And I think I've racked up enough phone time for one conversation."

Out of amusement more than anything else, the guard relents. "Fine. Indulge your fantasies."

He calls over another guard, who steers Dean towards the phones, taking a stance ten feet away from Dean. It's not much privacy at all, but at least right now, Dean doesn't need any. Remembering the numbers from memory, like Emily had just given him the card a minute ago, Dean presses the sticky keys on the phone, bringing it up to his ear in anticipation.

"Prentiss," comes the voice over the line, the same voice Dean heard back in Marion. "Hello?"

"Emily?" Dean asks. "Er…Agent Prentiss."

He hears Emily's phone drop on a table, and a questioning voice on the other end—Morgan or Hotchner, Dean wagers—before she scrambles to pick it up, shushing her colleague. "Dean? Winchester?" she gapes, startled.

"You answered," Dean smiles. Truthfully, he'd not been sure she would. Especially after all this time.

"I said I would," Emily says slowly. "Um…what exactly is this about? I can't pull any more strings for you, if that's what you're—"

Dean shakes his head, even though she can't see him. "No, you did enough," he says. Cutting to the chase as he knows he doesn't have a lot of time, he says quickly, "Listen. I caught Agent Jareau's press conference yesterday, and looked up the case you guys are working. I think I can help."

"What?"

Dean was afraid this would happen. But he's never been one to back down, not at least in something like this. "I think I can help. The weird ways those victims died? I can tell you one thing right now: it ain't your average psychopath."

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 9:50 A.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

Emily slowly, almost catatonically, presses the End button on her phone and sets it down on the table, fully aware of Morgan's demanding gaze. "Don't tell me that was really _Dean Winchester_," he says, in as awed a voice as Morgan is capable of. "Emily, that was _four years ago_."

"I know," she finally answers. "But it was him. And he…he said…he said he could be of assistance again in this case."

Morgan laughs, until he sees Emily's face is the farthest thing from humor. "What?" he asks. "Seriously? How'd he find out about it?"

"Said he saw J.J.'s press conference. Then he looked up whatever information's on the internet. Supposedly, he thinks he can send us in the right direction. Like…like last time."

Rolling his eyes, Morgan crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, come on," he says in disbelief. "That was a one time thing. We were all burnt out, that's why we couldn't see those weird Latin carvings. Besides, you saw how broken that guy was. We all did. What are the odds he hasn't gotten worse?"

Emily turns to Morgan quickly, her eyes shadowed fire. "God, Morgan, give him credit. We never would've solved that case if he hadn't helped. Even if we _had_ seen the words, we wouldn't have been able to figure out what they meant. They were barely legible. Reid isn't fluent in Latin. He just recognized the saying. And face it. This case isn't going much better. Unless you have some genius idea that'll crack this."

Morgan clenches his jaw, knowing Emily's right. Not that he really wants to crown Dean with the glory of getting the crucial clue, but he does have to. And he doesn't doubt Dean could at least float an interesting idea past them. But still, Morgan wasn't blowing smoke about Dean being broken. The guy may rub him the wrong way, but Morgan would've been able to see inside Dean even if he weren't a profiler.

Dean was shattered, his psyche was damaged beyond repair, he was on the precipice of a complete mental breakdown, he just hadn't quite jumped yet. Morgan isn't afraid of Dean, more like (much to his reluctance) he's afraid _for_ Dean. Regardless if the probably-killer thinks he could help on the investigation, Morgan doesn't want to risk Dean's extremely fragile state of mind.

Like most of, if not all, the rest of his team, there was something…off about Dean in terms of his serial murderer-ness. Dean hadn't exuded all the characteristics of one, and while Morgan certainly isn't going to write off the possibility, he's not a hundred percent on the side of Dean being the worst since BTK. Prison's as safe a place as anywhere for someone like Dean (Morgan has a shrewd suspicion that a mental hospital would only cause Dean to take a mental swan dive faster), and if Morgan has anything to say about it, Dean's going to stay there. Not necessarily because he deserves to—and damn, Morgan kicks himself for thinking that—but because it's safe.

"Prentiss, no," he says. "We've barely started on this. I promise that if we get farther in and we still haven't got any leads, then we'll consider talking to him. But for now, we wait."

Emily pauses, as if she's considering Morgan's offer. But he can see in her face that she's already set her mind to the opposite. "You really want to wait for more people to die?" she challenges, knowing it's utterly unfair. Sighing in apology, she continues softly, "I have all the trust in the world in our abilities, Derek, but what's the harm in having Dean consult again? We don't even have to tell anyone else, if that's the best way to go about it; it can just be you, me, and Dean who know. But my instincts are telling me that maybe Dean has seen something in those articles, in those reports, that we haven't. You know just as well as I that we've sworn to do everything in our power to solve this. And I can see it in your eyes, too: you understand that."

"What happened to our agreement not to profile each other?" Morgan retorts half-heartedly.

Emily ignores him. "You said yourself once," she replies imploringly, thinking back to one of the darkest moments of her life, "that you'd have my back. _Always_. All I'm asking for is a chance here."

Morgan remembers the promise vividly, despite the fact that it was almost a decade ago. You don't forget something like that. "All right," he agrees, running a hand over his shaved head. "All right. I'm going to Hell because of this, but okay. What's the plan?"

* * *

_People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them._  
— James A. Baldwin


	2. Part II

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

**Part II

* * *

**

_April 11, 2017, 9:56 A.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

Morgan and Emily glance once at each other before striding down the precinct's hallway, both having the same train of thought, both knowing they'll have to let _one_ more person in the loop. They stop in front of a desk covered with no less than three computers, Garcia's eyes focused intently on one of the screens, her fingers typing mind-blowingly fast. When she notices she has company, she looks up through her glasses, hands paused on the keyboard.

"Not _here_, baby," she says to Morgan playfully. "I'm not that exhibitionist, even for you."

Morgan commands his facial muscles to smile, and succeeds. In a manner of speaking. Gesturing to Emily and himself, he requests, "We, uh…we need you to look up someone's whereabouts."

Unfortunately, when Emily had put in the inquiry—command, rather—for Dean to be moved to a medium-security facility, she hadn't been told where he would be going. Some stupid chain of politics that Emily really didn't want to contemplate. Never mind that she's _FBI_. No, the BOP decided to be assholes and not let her know. She would've tried to find him herself, but she's neither so talented in computers as to be able to do a search, nor has she really had the time. (If she lets the annoying side of her win, she'd also acknowledge that she hadn't quite been looking at all. Because, seriously. Dean. She honestly hadn't thought she'd ever see or speak to him again.)

"Finding people who don't want to be found is my specialty," Garcia grins, and clicks twice on something, getting ready to type. "Who am I looking for?"

Morgan and Emily look at each other again, and then Emily replies quietly, "Dean Winchester."

"Dean Winchester?" Garcia repeats, and halfway through, both agents hiss at her to be discrete.

"It's under the radar," Morgan beseeches. "Prentiss is crazy convincing when she puts her mind to it, but we don't really want to involve the rest of the team, let alone the P.D. Think you can do that for us, girl?"

Garcia starts to reply, before narrowing her eyes and glancing between the somewhat guilty-looking co-workers. Then a comprehending, if not downright gleeful, expression comes over her face. "Wait one minute," she says slyly. "You don't think he's guilty, _do you_? I knew it. I _knew_ someone that gorgeous couldn't be a killer. It's like…unconstitutional."

"Hey, now. We never said he wasn't guilty," Morgan objects hotly. "And I resent that. Just 'cause he's not repulsive to women doesn't mean—"

Garcia snorts. "Sweetie, you know I love you, but you just don't know what you're talking about," she says matter-of-factly. "Em, back me up here."

Morgan glares at Emily accusingly. She studiously pretends he's not. "I'd rather not comment."

"Ha!" triumphs Garcia. Then she sobers up (mostly). She's all for fun and games, but she can tell that, while Morgan and Emily are also usually up for witty banter, they're walking on burning coals right now. "All righty," she addresses her computer, "where are you, you sexy man beast you?"

Morgan looks very much like he'd like to put his fist through a wall (or, more accurately, Dean's face), but he restrains himself. Emily surreptitiously takes stock of where everyone is in the police station, and is gratified to discover that no one's paying them any attention. They probably just figure Morgan and Emily had come up with a lead. Which, possibly, they have. But they don't intend to tell anyone just yet.

"Connect Four," Garcia says happily, and Morgan and Emily quickly come around the desk to peer at the screen. "After our darling Emily was kind enough to get him transferred, evidently they plopped him in the Federal Correctional Institution in Edgefield, South Carolina. Its feng shuiing leaves some to be desired, though, if you ask me. I'm sure that poor boy needs some sun."

"I'll put in a requisition for a plasma screen while I'm at it," Morgan deadpans.

Garcia makes note of his taut features, a configuration that she's very rarely seen directed at her, and clears her throat awkwardly. "Right," she starts over. "So you want directions from the airport?"

Emily bites her lip. "Yeah—"

"Hold up," interrupts Morgan. "We got two options here, if you want to keep this quiet. We can either take a commercial flight, or we can, you know, _not _go. How exactly do you plan on explaining us going off on an excursion, to a location we can't tell anyone about? We got the prison number—we'll just do this by phone."

Emily looks at him strangely, halfway between wanting to smack him unkindly over the head and seeing merit in his words. Because he does have a point. Last time, the entire team went to Illinois to talk to Dean; no subterfuge required there. But now…not only would Emily and Morgan have to lie to their teammates (all of whom are professional profilers, mind you), but they'd be forcing Garcia to as well. And, much as they all adore her, she's a pretty shitty liar.

Garcia watches as Emily and Morgan have a silent battle of wills, Emily's years of being dragged all over Creation by her mother having strengthened her resolve; Morgan's years of growing up in the 'hood, of being secretly abused, and of kicking down doors even he didn't have to having given him what Garcia fondly refers to as the Sultry Stare of Death. Due to their equally strong sides, it's clear to anyone that neither is backing down.

With an impatient groan, Garcia stands up. "You two have to blink sometime, you know," she says. As they're still not moving, she puts one hand on each of their shoulders, turning them towards her. "What happened to compromises?" Temporarily deferring, Emily and Morgan focus on the analyst. "Why don't you call him first. If whatever he has to contribute won't work by ear, then you can go and talk to him. Good?"

They shrug in vague assent. "I'll go, uh…I'll get a hold of the prison," Emily mutters, walking away to get some privacy. Talking to the real McCoy of serial killers in less than a hardass manner in the middle of a police station that contains morales lower than low isn't on the top of the Good Things to Do list.

"No advice for me?" Morgan asks, feigning petulance. "You aim to hurt, woman."

Garcia scoffs. For a man of nearing forty-five, Morgan could be remarkably childish at times. Granted, Garcia wouldn't have it any other way, but _still_. It wouldn't do any harm to act like an FBI agent every once in a blue moon. "You, my stubborn little friend, are going to find out all you can on Dean. I have a feeling you'll have much better PR skills if, should you end up having to talk to him, you know more than how many people he's supposedly killed."

"'Supposedly'?"

Garcia winks. "I told you—"

"Yeah, yeah, 'someone that gorgeous could never be a serial killer,' I got the picture," Morgan recites, disgruntled. Stealing one of her laptops, he stalks off towards an empty interrogation room in order to do as Garcia had said. Don't get him wrong, he really has no intention of hopping a United Airlines 747 to go visit a thirty-five-to-lifer, though on the other hand, he _is_ kind of interested. But only sort of.

Settling into the room and shutting the door, Morgan opens the Bureau's database—after smiling at Garcia's background that consists of her and the whole team grinning, even a rare one from Hotch—and searches for Dean's name. There's more information that Morgan had expected, to be honest, taking into account that Dean's case should've been effectively shut eight years ago. He figures Henricksen had died before getting the chance to declare the status, and since Dean and Sam were supposedly dead, no one gave it any notice.

Well, the better for Morgan. He's more than capable of doing digging of his own, but that's a far cry from actually _wanting_ to do it.

The main page looks the same as any other perp's (apart from the unusually smarmy mug shot): name, aliases, birthdate, birthplace, height, weight, eye and hair color… Dean's rap sheet raises Morgan's eyebrows, not just because it could wallpaper one of Morgan's properties, but also because of the variety. There's your run-of-the-mill robberies and battery; then the higher profile identity theft, credit card fraud, plus the murders, of course; then the weird ones. Grave desecration, and the notations of Dean's odd "confessions," for instance. Morgan curiously plays the video from Dean's theoretical admission from the Baltimore holding.

_My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius, I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women._

Morgan pauses to marvel at how incredibly different Dean's voice and intonations are from the ones Morgan had heard that, if there weren't video proof, he wouldn't believe it's the same person. Morgan takes a head-clearing breath and continues.

_And I did not kill anyone. But I know who did. Or rather _what_ did. 'Course, you can't be for sure, because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory is that we're looking for some kind of…vengeful spirit. You know, Casper the Bloodthirsty Ghost. Tony Giles saw it, and I'll bet you cash money Karen did, too. But, see, the interesting thing is the word it leaves behind. For some reason, it's trying to tell us something._

_But communicating across the veil, it ain't easy. Sometimes the spirits, they get things jumbled. You remember "redrum." Same concept. It's, uh, it could be word fragments, other times it's anagrams. See, first we thought this was a name, "Dana Shulps." But now, we think it's a street: "Ashland." Whatever's going on, I'm betting it started there._

_You arrogant bastard. Tony and Karen were good people, and you're making jokes. _It's someone behind the camera, Morgan assumes one of the arresting detectives. There's, predictably, disgust written all over it.

_I'm not joking, Ponch._

_You murdered them in cold blood, just like that girl in St. Louis!_

_Oh, yeah, that wasn't me either. That was a shapeshifter creature that only looked like me._

Morgan presses the spacebar, stopping the video. He'd heard enough.

Every behavioral bone in his body is screaming at him to file Dean nicely under the category of a paranoid schizophrenic with religious psychosis, and maybe a topping of narcissistic personality disorder. He watches Dean's mannerisms and the assured look in his affectations, and very much wants to see Dean as an example in a textbook.

And yet…there's some part of Morgan's mind—certainly not a scientific or rational part—that's causing him hesitation from labeling as such the man smirking on the screen in front of him.

He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he hadn't gone with everyone to Marion, he'd be more than happy to slap Dean with a cut-and-dry diagnosis. Morgan hadn't spent more than ten minutes with the guy, but he'd seen Dean's reaction when they'd showed him the crime scene photos (not to mention Prentiss's weird loyalty). Even barring Dean's clearly dystopian mindset, the only true spark of life Morgan had seen was when Dean was looking at the evidence of a horrifyingly sick individual. (And when J.J. mentioned Sam, but Morgan intuits that that's a whole 'nother can of worms.)

Yeah, he's seen serial killers have a guise of innocence—that's pretty much how they get away with crap—but Dean's eyes had been sharp, his mouth set in resolve. Hell, his entire body stance had become more alert and rigid, mind sorting through any relevance of past experiences, acumen of deductive reasoning whirring into place. And Morgan can't even write it off as Dean angling for something.

He'd become determined even before Emily had proposed the relocation to a medium-security prison. There's a first time for everything, but Morgan has a very hard time imagining that Dean _Winchester_ would voluntarily help out the _Federal Bureau of Investigation_ if he were really as Henricksen and his file suggest.

Again, in no way is Morgan in the Team Dean camp, he's just…entertaining the possibility that perhaps some things were overlooked because of preconceptions. Which is a main difference between regular cops and agents, and the BAU. There are times when the BAU isn't as uniformly objective as Morgan would like, but in general, he tries to address each person questioned with the "innocent until proven guilty" mentality.

And so if he throws out the paper data, goes with what he _feels_, he comes to the conclusion that, at the very least, Dean's motives for helping them here are pure. With that thought firmly in place, solely for the benefit of the Manistiquans, of_ course_, Morgan looks at the rest of Dean's records. His goal being to get to the bottom of precisely what Dean had said at the end of his statement:

_You asked for the truth…

* * *

_

_April 11, 2017, 10:01 A.M.  
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield  
Edgefield, South Carolina_

"Federal Correctional—"

"Save it. Just connect me to Dean Winchester," Emily says impatiently, really not interested in formalities.

There's a brief pause, during which Emily infers the person on the other line is reforming their thoughts, when she's asked, "Is this Agent Emily Prentiss?"

Emily guesses she shouldn't have been surprised, but she is. "Um…yeah. I am."

"Mr. Winchester told a guard you'd be calling," says the receptionist (or whoever). "Understandably, we didn't necessarily believe him, but—"

"I don't care," replies Emily in a harsher tone than normal. Considering the nature of the last case on which Dean'd advised, she doesn't want to waste any more time on this one. The receptionist huffs, but goes to, presumably, retrieve Dean.

It's a lengthy three minutes later when Dean's rough voice comes on. "You know, if I keep consulting with you, I'm gonna start charging a fee," he says by way of greeting.

Emily tries not to be taken aback at Dean's nonchalance, and wonders if the animation Dean's projecting is because of the prospect of helping the BAU again with a brutal and difficult investigation. She tries not to profile just how deviant and sad that perspective is.

"Morgan and I decided you could be an asset to this case," Emily says. "Thing is, we don't think it'd be…well, _prudent_ for the whole team and local P.D. to know about it."

"Morgan, that's the guy that looks like he's auditioning for a Bowflex commercial?" Dean clarifies. No sense in having any kind of confusion as to the people with whom he'd be communicating.

Emily makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan at the complete absurdity of Dean's comment. She can tell that Dean's definitely embellishing his sarcastic and lighthearted tone, and wonders what it'd take for it to become real and second-nature.

"Yeah, that's Morgan," she answers. She starts to move on to the actual nature of her call, but one thing strikes her that she can't help but ask. "You know he does at least a thousand sit-ups a day? Who the hell does that?"

Dean holds the phone away from his ear, staring at it in bewilderment. Then he gives a half-smile and thinks that maybe Emily won't be so straight, narrow, and agent-y all the time. "And?" he ripostes. "So do I."

Emily is rendered aggravated for a few moments, caught in the middle of being annoyed and pondering if Dean's telling the truth. Judging by his physique when she'd met him, she doubts he isn't. And becomes even more irked with both men. Really, a _thousand_ a day? That's just plain vanity.

Emily's momentary lapse in concentration coerces Dean to get back on track. He may be toying with coming out of shadows and gloom, but this kind of case is certainly not the time for it. "Okay," Dean says, clearing his throat, "so how we going to do this? Do I get temporary leave from prison or something?"

Dean's words do the trick, and returns Emily into investigative mode. "Well, that's the other thing," she says awkwardly. "We can't really bring you out here. It's a lot less difficult to hide just talking to someone than it is to hide an entire person."

There's silence on Dean's end, almost to the point where Emily questions if he's still there, when he responds, "Sure, no, I get it." Emily can hear the stiltedness in his voice, and waits. "But, small problem with that."

"Oh yeah?"

Dean vacillates on how much he should tell her just yet. He hasn't had much time to study how Emily approaches things thus far, and isn't sure if she's one to react to outright pushing, or more passive-aggression. "You're gonna need me there for this," he says. "Trust me."

Glancing around the precinct as if to make sure it really would be impossible to sneak in Dean, and coming to the conclusion that _yes_, it would, Emily sighs. "Trust you," she repeats hollowly. "Dean, it's not really my authority here—"

"Then bring stoic dude in the loop if you have to," Dean intercedes emphatically, Emily assuming correctly that Dean was referring to Hotch. "But this isn't something that I can tell you _over the phone_. Let alone while I'm being monitored from ten feet away."

Emily tightens her hand around her cell, exasperated beyond belief. "_Look_," she snaps, choosing not to acknowledge the immaturity of getting into an argument with a convicted felon. "We could use your help, really. But I can't just get you out of prison and fly you to Michigan without anyone noticing. I can send you what we've got on the case so you can look at it and get back to us, but that's about it."

"I get your situation, I do," Dean says sincerely, attempting to keep his articulations level for the sake of maintaining the guard's relative inattention, "but crime scene photos and grieving parents depositions aren't going to cut it. Not with this. I need to _be there_, see things."

"You solved the last case without—"

Dean nearly growls with frustration. "This is not even close to the same thing!" he exclaims, now hardly caring if the guard hears. All he cares about right now is getting the gravity of everything across without divulging too much too soon. "Prentiss, the only reasons I was able to solve that last one were because you guys were tired and not operating on all cylinders, and because it was lucky you got the Latin carvings in the photos. If those hadn't been there, if you'd just gotten a different angle for the scenes, I probably wouldn't've caught them. It's the same thing here. I can't do anything worth jack squat from whatever documents you got going on. Please. I can solve this, I just need some leeway from you."

Dean's _this close_ to simply spilling all he knows to Emily, but he knows she'll neither believe him, nor would she even consider bringing him in anymore. In fact, on top of another psych eval, she'd most likely make a note somewhere saying he's mentally incompetent and no one can ever think about consulting him going forward. Which, while Dean's just fine in solitary, prefers it actually, he's sure he'd go out of his skull if he weren't able to close this current case at least.

He honestly doesn't give a shit if the BAU doesn't call on him again—he'll just make sure not to watch the news—but given that he knows, he _knows_ they need him, he can't just ignore it. He'd thought he could, but Heaven help him, he feels that constant pang in his chest as if future victims are begging for salvation, that jittery sensation in his muscles for an imminent hunt, that racing in his blood that's only satisfied when some evil son of a bitch is dead, buried, and burned. It'll just consume him, drive him to real insanity, if the damn FBI is muddling around in circles; meanwhile, the culprit is sneering right in front of Dean, who's stuck in a cage like a feral lion.

No.

He's not felt this alive and electrified in years, and in someone like Dean, that's a dangerous combination if it doesn't have an outlet. Clenching his free hand into a fist, he closes his eyes. "Please," he says, in the voice reserved for things as asking a bereaved single father if he'd cremated _all_ of his son in order to exorcise the homicidal brat, "I know you know I'd be a benefit. And yeah, it'll require some gymnastics to get me out of here for a few days, but if it means saving people, isn't it worth it?"

And isn't _that_ the question of the century, Emily muses darkly as she wages an internal battle. She's on the verge of refusing Dean once more when her eye catches the board that contains all the crime scene pictures and victims. She stares at Jansen's mutilated and all-wrong body splayed on her bed, Beltway's torso swollen with water, the blood pooled inside Levin's chest staining her skin blue, black, and purple.

Most importantly, she thinks of how she'd feel if someone else died and she had to explain to someone's fiancée or child or parent just why she hadn't been able to prevent the death. She'd have to contend with her conscience shouting accusations that she would've had a better chance of stopping the unsub if she'd had Dean's help after all.

She has no choice. Screw the chain of command. Screw morals. This is bigger than that.

Swallowing, Emily says with conviction, "You're right. I don't know what I'd do if there were another victim that could have been saved if we'd brought you in to assist us."

She doesn't see Dean's allayed smile, or his forehead dropping on the corner of the phone booth in relief, but the fluidity is back in his words. "Thank you," he replies.

"It won't be easy, but I'll make some threats and have you on a plane in less than twenty-four hours, mark my words," Emily says with no room for argument.

"Great," replies Dean. "But, just so you know, the first thing I'm doing when I'm there is getting a burger. I'm fucking _starving_."

* * *

"_The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."_  
— Edmund Burke


	3. Part III

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

**Part III

* * *

**

_April 11, 2017, 10:10 A.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

Emily hangs up her phone, reeling not minimally, and quickly locates Morgan, entering the interrogation room. Chin in his hand, Morgan is intent on the computer screen, occasional blue flashes coming over his face from whatever video is playing. Stepping in, Emily knocks belatedly.

Morgan looks up at her, stalling the video, and Emily's nothing short of surprised at the mixture of solemnity and indecision on his features. In all the time she's known him, Derek Morgan has never been unsure. Maybe not willing to bet his life on a theory or suspect, but never indecisive. So the expression now is, frankly, startling.

"How'd it go?" he asks, clearing his throat.

Emily laughs dismally. "Awful," she answers. "But I can say one thing for Dean—he's one of the most persuasive people I've ever met."

Morgan doesn't disagree. "I've been looking at absolutely everything there is about him," he says. "And it's…strange."

"How so?" Emily inquires, taking a seat next to him. On the computer is what looks like a newscast, apparently from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but she can't deduce much more than that.

Morgan gestures vaguely to the stilled image. "Dean's FBI and police files, not to mention Henricksen, were all convinced to the death that Dean's an endangerment to society," he relays. Emily waits. "Except, all the testimonies recorded from witnesses say the opposite. Everyone from a credentialed detective in Baltimore to a bank manager—this Milwaukee bank, actually—say that Dean _and_ Sam saved their lives. So for the life of me, I can't figure out what the fuck is going on here."

Emily cracks a smile at his exasperation. "Welcome to the club," she replies. "I guess we can both see now why the Winchesters nearly made Henricksen go crazy, huh?"

If he weren't above hitting women, Morgan would give Emily a good punch on the shoulder. "Thanks for that," he replies sarcastically. "That really isn't helping."

"What do you want me to say, Morgan?" Emily replies tiredly. "Obviously we need Dean on this, and I told him I'd find a way to fly him over here. You're welcome to try and talk me out of it, but you know it won't do any good."

Morgan would like to, very much so, but Emily's preaching gospel as far as he's concerned, in regards to her tenacity. "Well, if anyone can get a serial killer out from behind bars, it's you, Prentiss," he smiles.

She's not sure what to say to that, so instead she gestures to the computer. "Apart from frustration, did you get anything useful in there?"

Morgan groans and slams shut the screen with more force than Emily is sure Garcia would appreciate. "No," he says. "Found out Dean's more of a smartass than Hotch let on, and that he's on a hair trigger whenever Sam's name is mentioned, but other than that, nothing. I have hand it to them, though—considering how many times they escaped capture or prison, they're definitely as skilled as their demeanor asserts."

"I think we decided that in Illinois," Emily chuckles. Standing up reluctantly, she says, "I should probably go make those calls. Get Dean out of there for a couple days. You try and think of ways to keep this as quiet as possible. We might end up having to let someone like Hotch know, but I'm hoping that between you, me, and Dean, no one has to be aware of this."

Morgan looks skeptical, but latches onto Emily's confidence. "You got it," he says, getting out of his chair and picking up the computer. "I'll give this back to Garcia. Maybe she'll have some suggestions on the security front."

"Good idea," iterates Emily, pulling out her cell phone. "Reconvene in an hour or so?"

Nodding, Morgan heads toward the door. "Let's just hope this goes as we plan."

Emily sincerely doubts it will, but she keeps up the assured front. "Yeah. Here's hoping."

Exhaling heavily, Emily presses in a number on her phone, silently thanking the fact that she knows some of her mother's contacts, and that she has the Prentiss name going for her. She despises what childhood was forced upon her, but sometimes she has to admit that her mother's ambassadorship has some upsides.

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 11:00 A.M.  
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield  
Edgefield, South Carolina_

An hour after Emily's phone call, and Dean is still in a relative state of disbelief over it, thankful that being back at his job of folding sheets doesn't require much thought, leaving him to muse on things very not linen-related. 13192 is still his folding-mate, which is unfortunate because, much as Dean tries to ignore it, the man keeps flicking his eyes up as if in question. Dean has no misgivings whatsoever that people know to whom he was talking; Dean's already an enigma, and now people find out he's communicating with an FBI agent?

It's cause for suspicion. As if Dean doesn't already have enough issues to deal with right now.

"You wanna say something, just spit it out," he says finally, fed up. "Or else stop fucking _staring_ at me."

13192 doesn't look abashed, not at all, but shrugs. "What yous doin' talkin' to the Feds?" he asks, tossing a creased sheet onto the ever-growing pile. "You gots us wond'rin'."

"It's not any of your business," Dean replies harshly. "I can talk to who the fuck ever I want."

For all the idiocy that 13192 projects, his liquidy gray eyes are sharp. "Yous a killer," he says, as if Dean weren't aware of that charge. "But you ain't talkin' 'bout time. Somethin' 'bout a _case_?"

Dean clenches his jaw, fingers curling in on the fabric, knuckles slowly turning white. "It isn't your business," enunciates Dean again. "Fuck off."

13192 shrugs again. "Just tellin' you t' watch your back, Winchester," he says. Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes at the intended menace. "We don' take kin'ly to snitches."

"Your attempt at a pissing contest ain't gonna do you any good," Dean says. "If you'll remember, I kicked your boy's ass when I got thrown in here. You want that to happen again?"

It's clear the prisoner hadn't forgotten—in truth, convicts have pretty flawless memories—and it's written on his face. "Just tellin' you," he settles. "That Fed get you outta here an' you come back, you ain' gettin' it easy."

This time, Dean actually does roll his eyes. "Promises, promises," he mutters, going back to the folding.

Not that he'll ever admit it, but 13192 had a point. (Sort of.) Sure, Dean really doesn't care what will "happen" to him in prison, since he knows he can more than defend himself. No, what just started to eat at him is what the schematics would be after the case gets solved, provided Emily could actually have him sprung in the first place, that is.

Dean's stomach feels vaguely hollow at the fear that arises. The fear that, if he were able to experience society again, the kind of moral society of the BAU, the people who have the same intentions as he and S—as he did. Back when he was hunting. He's afraid that a small part of him wouldn't want to return to lockup. He's more than positive he'd still want to be by himself, be alone, but…but would he want the _ability_ to go out if he had such a desire? Even setting aside the potentiality that there's still a bounty on his head (police bounty; the demons' had all but expired seven years ago), would he want to be more or less free again? It'd only be physical freedom, but…maybe that'd be enough?

No.

It's dangerous to entertain those thoughts. Dean clamps a hold of them, pushes them away. Burns them. He isn't here for recreation. He's here to kill that goddamned son of a bitch, help out Agent Prentiss and her team, then get back to emptiness. That's the way it'll be. The way it _has_ to be. Because if it were to change, if the status quo were to change…well. It can't. It just can't.

He'll wait for Emily's call, wait for her say-so, be at her authority. Period.

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 12:02 P.M.  
Outside the home of Kari Jansen  
Manistique, Michigan_

"Well, this was a total bust," says J.J., sighing as she slides into the passenger seat. "We weren't able to get anything from the scene that we couldn't from the pictures and reports."

"Which is almost more troubling than the crime itself," comments Hotch. Starting the ignition and pulling out onto the road, he continues, "To my memory, there's never been a scene from which we couldn't profile _anything_."

Reid looks out the window, his face both as if he's thinking harder than normal, and distressed, like he's almost ashamed he wasn't able to locate something in the house. Not just Jansen's, but the other two victims' as well. Levin's was just as ordinary as Jansen's, and although they did take some journals with what looked like writing akin to doctor shorthand from Beltway's apartment, they don't think it'll come to much.

"It just means we'll have to profile the victims more thoroughly," he says, trying to be optimistic.

J.J. tries to stow her cynicism. Tries to banish the thoughts that the way they have no leads on this case is starting to remind her of that one four years ago. Which, given what caused their eventual success in that one…she _really_ needs to banish those thoughts. A moment later, she does. She thinks she just had a massive moment of weakness. There's no reason to fault their skills _now_. They're only a couple days into the investigation. They have plenty of time. As long as—

"We just have to work fast," says Hotch stiltedly. "We've got next to no info on this unsub so far, or what his next move'll be. It looks like we might have a six-day window, but like Prentiss said, that doesn't necessarily mean a pattern. We can't solely rely on that."

"Then lets get back to the police station," says J.J. "Maybe Prentiss, Morgan, and Garcia have found something."

Rossi sighs. "Let's hope."

Considering the size of the town, it takes but five minutes to return to the station, and the four try to not look any of the local officers in the eyes. Even if they weren't profilers, the accusation and expectation would be clear. And if there's anything a behavior analyst hates, it's failing at their craft. Luckily for Morgan and Garcia, the distraction allows just enough time to close out any windows and files pertaining to the Winchesters, and even put up a smokescreen of innocent seriousness.

"Tell me you found something," says Morgan. Despite the fact that everything Dean-related is shut down, it's as though he can feel the man's smarmy mug shot smile grinning up at him. It's really rather irking.

"You thought our luck would start now?" gripes J.J., her face taut.

"Come on, _anything_," begs Morgan, leaning on the table.

Hotch shakes his head. "There was nothing out of the ordinary," he says. "If there weren't a woman lying dead, I would have thought everything was just fine."

Morgan sighs. "All right, well, where do you want to go from here?"

"You're saying you guys haven't had any luck either?" asks J.J., sounding at the end of her rope. "What the _hell_?"

Morgan feels Garcia's glance at him, and prays that her willpower is strong enough to keep this under wraps. At least for now. If there's any remotely good time to break the news that Emily had been in contact with Dean, it sure isn't now. Not when the team is more wound than a tripwire.

"Not really," he settles, figuring it's not _entirely_ a lie. After all, Dean hadn't so far given them anything useful, nor has Emily yet gotten anywhere with the BOP.

And regardless of how incredible Garcia's hacker skills are, she hadn't been able to come up with anything technologically viable that could aid them. He himself would kind of like to apprise the rest of the team about Emily's hare-brained plan, thinks that maybe it'd pan out better if there were more minds at work, but then there's also the too-many-cooks adage. Right now, Morgan can see that they're at the stage of aggravation, but not total despair quite yet. Which means that should Morgan let them know that they're in talks with Dean, it would go over about as well as Hiroshima.

Hotch sighs, and Morgan knows all too well what the new expression on his face means. The determination, the hardness, the resolve. "I'll speak with the Chief," says Hotch, and there it is. The SAIC persona that is never one whit away from perfect.

"Press statement," is all J.J. manages, and she strides away to contact news outlets. Morgan wonders how she does it all without wanting to murder all the media hounds herself.

Rossi looks at Morgan, his eyes penetrating. "Nothing?" he asks. There's no leeriness, for which Morgan's grateful, but beseeching is almost as bad.

"Nothing solid," Morgan replies carefully. "Prentiss is following up with some co-workers and classmates, but she's not getting much. Garcia and I've been over credit card records, past addresses, rap sheets…"

Rossi waves a hand, cutting off Morgan's very uninspiring (and mostly false) news. "Yeah," he says despondently. "Well, keep us posted if you do find something." To Reid, he offers, "We got those journals from Beltway's; you and I can look through those, try and make some sense of them."

Reid doesn't look too optimistic, but agrees. "Worth a try," he comments, following Rossi into one of the interrogation rooms.

This time, Morgan meets Garcia's stare. "I don't like this," she says with a frown, looking—Morgan's sure against her will—adorable. As if sensing Morgan's amusement, she says more forcefully, "I'm serious. I don't like secret-keeping. You know what they say: 'secrets, secrets are no fun, secrets, secrets hurt someone.'"

Morgan holds up his hands. "Take it up with Prentiss," he says. "It was her idea."

"Typical," Garcia comments haughtily. "Men not owning up to anything."

"Watch it," replies Morgan. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he exhales. "Just—just tell me if there's even one dot on the radar that has to do with Dean Winchester."

Garcia nods. "Consider him bugged."

"That's my girl."

* * *

"I don't give a shit about _channels_!"

Had Emily not been outside the police station for the last three calls she made, there would undeniably be a squadron sprinting over to see if she'd slaughtered someone. Even so, Emily's hand around her cell phone is so tight the plastic is creaking in protest. And needless to say, the man on the other line, for no reason beyond that he's the umpteenth one with whom Emily's spoken, feels like he's the one being interrogated.

"Ma'am, Mr. Winchester has committed every crime in the book," he says warily, now understanding why local P.D.s always hate Feds taking over cases. "Including mass murder. He has already been moved from ADMAX to a medium-security facility, against all recommendation. Look, Agent Prentiss, I would like to help you, but there's nothing we can do. We can't just _let out_ this guy."

Emily breathes in and out through her nose, holding the phone away from her ear for a moment. "He could be imperative to an investigation!" she objects vehemently. "He was already imperative to one four years ago, and we feel he could be again. You can have him back after, I don't care, but we need him in Michigan. _Now_."

"I'm sorry," says the man, incredibly glad he's safe in Atlanta. "I cannot release this man into your custody, even for a federal investigation."

Were Emily able to strangle him through the phone, she would. "Screw you," she snaps unprofessionally, jabbing the End button forcefully.

Finding the wall, she leans against it, closing her eyes. She knows she shouldn't have expected anything more, that when she called the BOP, this is exactly what they would say, but it doesn't make the rejection any less infuriating. What makes it even worse is that she's pretty sure _Hotch_ would be able to sway them to release Dean temporarily.

Maybe she should…

"Prentiss?"

She doesn't move at Morgan's voice, just stays where she is, taking even breaths, thinking that those crackpot anger management counselors don't know what they're talking about when they say deep breathing helps. Because it really doesn't.

"Emily," Morgan tries again, shutting the door and walking in front of her. "You all right?"

Well, that does it. Peering at Morgan angrily, she bites, "No, Derek, I am not. I've been hitting roadblock after roadblock for _two hours_ with these stupid fucking prison bureaus, and have gotten _nowhere_. Every minute Dean's in corrections is another minute our unsub has to orchestrate his next attack. I'm almost thinking that…that Hotch might…"

"No," Morgan interrupts. "No. You know we can't do that. If we tell Hotch, he's not going to agree to keeping this quiet. He's going to want to at least tell the rest of the team. And if we do that, we'll have to convince them that this is a good idea."

"I convinced all of you last time," Emily says half-heartedly.

Morgan wonders just when he became the one fully on board with this Dean thing. For all the intelligence he has, he can't logic that out. "All right, listen," Morgan says gently, "I know this is frustrating. Not just because of the BOP guys—they're as annoying as Homeland Security—but because of this unsub. And…much as Dean is far, far from my favorite person, I think you're right. We do need him."

"Which we can't do if these assholes keep this up."

"Stick with it, Emily," says Morgan with a small smile. "You'll get through."

"Yeah. Sure," she says dubiously. "While we're waiting for _that_ to happen, did Garcia get anything?"

Morgan shakes his head ruefully. "Not anything more than—"

The back door opens with a slam, to reveal the woman in question. "Morgan, Emily!" she says hurriedly. "We've got a problem."

"Now what?" Emily groans.

Garcia looks between the two agents nervously. "Uh…you know that alert I put up?" she asks, directing it toward Morgan.

"You just told me three minutes ago," he says, would have said it with a laugh had Garcia's face not been so serious.

"I got a hit."

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 11:50 A.M.  
Edgefield, South Carolina_

Seeing J.J.'s most recent press conference told Dean all he needed to know. She didn't actually say there was another murder, but he saw the strain in her face. To his eyes, it was displayed plain as day. He may not have been actively pondering this route before, hadn't considered it at all, actually, but casing a place is a habit you just don't break.

It was easier than Dean would've thought, to be honest. He guesses people had just learned to ignore him after all this time of him being a fairly passive inmate. His reputation is legendary, but at this point, the majority of them have similar thoughts as those of Bela a decade ago: _Interesting how the legend is so much more than the man_.

Dean's almost disappointed it was so simple. Almost. He didn't even have to do any negotiating with the guards. Dean's cell block got out for rec, and he went out to the yard this time, unassuming as you please. No one even noticed him, their eyes just sliding right on past as if he really were the ghost he'd been prior to meeting Emily Prentiss.

Forty-five minutes later and his block was called back in, called into a line where they were counted and searched. Thirty-nine prisoners accounted for. One missing.

Dean's well out of sight when he hears the alarm bells ring, and as he takes a second to get his wind, he does something he hasn't in a long time.

He smiles.

* * *

_Human potential, though not always apparent, is there waiting to be discovered and invited forth._  
— William W. Purkey


	4. Part IV

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

**Part IV

* * *

**

_April 11, 2017, 12:11 P.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

"What do you mean you have a hit?" Morgan asks, floored. "_Already_?"

Garcia nods quickly. "Came in as soon as I put up the bug."

"About what, Garcia?" asks Prentiss, fearing the expression on the technical analyst's face.

"Um…" She's not really sure how to put this. "Looks like FCI Edgefield reported a—well, one of their prisoners escaped."

Morgan and Emily exchange a wary glance. "Dean?" Emily inquires cautiously.

Garcia looks apologetic, even though it's far from her fault. "Yeah. Sorry," she says, retreating back inside the police station to let her colleagues sort it out.

"What do you want to do?" Emily asks Morgan, looking at him like he's supposed to have all the answers.

He's at a loss. "We can't do anything," he says finally. "I've seen all there is about that guy—no one but him is going to know why he escaped jail, and I'm betting the only way anyone's going to find him now is if he wants to be found. I'm—I'm sorry this didn't pan out, Emily."

Emily takes a breath and holds it, folding her arms over her chest. "It was a long shot anyway," she says stiffly. "I have no idea why I thought trusting a criminal would turn out well. I should have just been helping solve this the right way. And I shouldn't have dragged you into it."

He laughs lowly. "Stop it, Prentiss," he says. "I was on board with this just like you were. If it makes you feel better, we're not nearly the first people Dean's fooled."

Emily glares. "It doesn't," she answers. Her posture visibly straightening, she schools her voice. "Well? We've got time to make up, Morgan. They're expecting us to think up with something useful."

Morgan recognizes Emily's acerbity for the front it really is and pulls open the door, motioning for her to go first. "Yes, ma'am," he says without a trace of sarcasm. "Nose to grindstone it is."

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 1:58 P.M.  
Hendersonville, North Carolina (Ish.)_

Dean had forgotten how much he loves the open road.

Prison, both internal and governmental, had slowly but surely hammered out the feelings he used to get when speeding down the freeway in his car, the memories. Being in ADMAX does that to a person.

He's not in _his_ car now, just this old clunker he'd hotwired at a Gas-'N-Go right outside of Edgefield, but if he pretends hard enough, he can imagine he's racing down the road in his Impala, vintage Metallica blasting through the speakers; hell, can even imagine that Sam, pre-vessel Sam, is beside him, a flashlight held in his teeth as he looks at a map of the U.S. in search of their next hunt.

The façade is immaculate enough to last Dean up through this point, and is still going strong. While prison hadn't been helpful towards keeping nice remembrances, it had augmented the ability to create illusions, and Dean never does anything half-assed. His illusions are frickin' _perfect_.

Which, had he chosen to ruminate on that, he'd have realized just how sad it is.

Dean doesn't even pay attention to the mileage signs, like he might have in times past. He doesn't care one iota that the scenery on either side of him is flat, boring, agricultural fields with no sign of life except the occasional cow or farmhouse.

He doesn't make many stops, only to get siphoned gas or food, and once to steal a pair of clothes out of a parked truck bed and change out cars. His legs were getting cramped (he'd started to feel sympathy for what Sam must have always gone through, what with his freakishly tall stature, and then his heart sent a stop-thinking-about-Sam jab throughout his body, so he switches topics), and, while he didn't think anyone would have reported the car missing yet, he _is_ a fugitive (_again_), and it's better safe than sorry. He spotted it off the freeway, and since it wasn't in any state of disrepair beyond being about twenty years old, Dean surmised it had had some mechanical difficulty and its owner decided to walk to the nearest house to get some help.

It took Dean about five seconds to deduce that the battery must have died, another three minutes to find a screwdriver in the glove compartment and switch out the Jeep Cherokee's battery with the clunker's, and, two stripped wires later, he was back on the road. The owner would come back to the freeway with a hell of a surprise, but Dean really can't gather the emotion to care. After what Dean's been through, he feels his conscience should be sated enough for a two tiny little car thefts.

As he heads into Findlay, Ohio on I-75, his eye does catch one mile marker:

**Michigan-Ontario Border – 420 miles**

Much like years and years ago when the Impala was freshly restored, Dean smiles and presses down on the gas. The Cherokee doesn't make the same soothing guttural sound that the Impala does, but even the Jeep's engine revving is enough.

He's not going to Canada, and in fact Manistique is a little longer than 420 miles away, as he'd found out when he bought (read: stole) a map and discovered it's about the smallest town you can get while still maintaining your own zip code. In other words, a sign telling him where the Canadian border is is as good of an estimate that I-75 will allot.

Fine by him. He's got a destination, a Coke, a full tank of gas, and he'd even found a rock radio station. He's running on about two hours of sleep total over the past three days, but right now, he couldn't be more energized. He's on a hunt, and to top it all off, he knows the people he'll be meeting in less than half a day are going to provide him with some immensely amusing facial expressions.

All in all, pretty much the best day he's had in seven years.

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 11:35 P.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

"My eyes are crossing," J.J. says, massaging her temples and inhaling the hot, thick scent of her umpteenth cup of bad coffee.

It's been hours that they've scoured the case notes, crime scene pictures, and interviewee depositions, and although J.J. was the only one to voice it, her thoughts are the same as everyone else's. Even Reid had dwindled on his stats reciting around nine. Garcia had fallen asleep on her keyboard, and as a result had pressed the letter Z a thousand times before Morgan noticed and gently moved her head off the offending key. She'd squirmed but hadn't woken, so with a soft chuckle, he patted her head and went to the P.D. kitchenette to refill his, Emily's, and Hotch's cups of caffeine.

The sheriff had come into their conference room a few times to tell them to get some rest and come in fresh the next morning, but after a while, he'd just given up, heading home himself. The BAU usually puts on personas of geniality to officers, witnesses, and the like, but when they're tired, frustrated, and annoyed, the best option is to run like hell.

At J.J.'s words, they all gives mumbles of assent. Before anyone can say anything else, Rossi commands, "J.J., why don't you and Hotch go on a food run. I personally could use some pizza. Or Chinese. Really, at this point, military rations would suffice."

"No, I'll stay—you and Reid go," Hotch says, ever the stoic unit chief.

Emily rolls her eyes. "You've been doing twice our work, Hotch," she says. "You need some air."

It's a testament to their weariness that Hotch doesn't put up any more of a fight and, taking a last sip of his coffee, he follows J.J. out to the SUVs. Manistique doesn't exactly have a surfeit of restaurants, let alone ones that are open past ten, but right now, they'd take a McDonald's. (As it happens, Manistique doesn't have one of those either, but that's rather beside the point.)

"Okay," says Rossi, continuing with his temporary reign of power, "let's regroup. Morgan, take the whiteboard, erase everything. We're starting over. What do we know?"

None of the four really want to rehash all of it, primarily because they know everything so thoroughly it's practically memorized, but Emily's had enough experience with this to know that sometimes, writing it all out again does help. She and Reid list off the vitals first, the facts they'd known since the very beginning, and then go into the details, including new aspects they'd gleaned—and extrapolated—from the files. The restarting has a second benefit, actually: when the P.D. assembles again in the morning, they'll have a profile to work with.

"Looks like a male, aged twenty-five to thirty-five," starts Emily, not needing to look at anything. "A woman wouldn't be so all over the place with victimology; not to mention, the level of sadism is way too high. A woman would go more for the quieter kill—poison, suffocation—than breaking every bone in someone's body, or force-drowning."

"Athletic, probably handsome as well," inputs Reid, "considering Levin was an avid basketball player, and Beltway participated in the Michigan triathlon every year. And since none of the victims were shot or strangled, it looks like they would have seen their attacker, talked with him, and people have a much higher chance of sticking around if a stranger is attractive."

"It doesn't appear that the unsub stalks or specifically chooses his victims; he goes for randomness, convenience," concludes Rossi. "Beltway goes for a run every night, Levin's family is in Nevada, and Jansen is single and lives alone…they're relatively low-risk."

Morgan's tight handwriting fills the board, the descriptions penned under each victim's photo or crime scene, the profile off to the side. He caps the marker and takes a seat next to Reid, his stare joining his coworkers'. "Guess I'll say the obvious," he says, looking between Reid, Rossi, and Emily. "We can't find a motive that would tie the vics together, and apart from _maybe_ Beltway, we can't figure out how they could have been killed. Seriously—how the hell could someone manage to murder Levin and Jansen?"

Reid has to agree. "Coroner said Jansen's injuries are characteristic only to jumpers," he says. "He couldn't come up with an alternate explanation."

They're silent for a while, entering a sort of fugue, and are jostled out of it when J.J. and Hotch return, their arms full of Coke, plates, and three boxes of pizza. "Pepperoni, Hawaiian, and veggie," J.J. remarks, setting the corresponding boxes on the table.

Grateful, Morgan starts doling out the pizza, piling three slices for himself, and refills mugs with the Coke. After many minutes of talk-free eating, they're all feeling somewhat better now that they have some sustenance. Their morale is still low, but at least their blood sugar is now to scratch, their hunger pangs gone. The pizza's greasy and sits heavily in the stomach, but it's good, and, to be honest, they're all of similar mind as Rossi—they would have settled for combat rations, so pizza's a step up.

"You didn't happen to come up with any epiphanies while you were out," Morgan hopes through a mouthful of pepperoni, flicking his eyes between Hotch and J.J.

J.J. shakes her head regrettably, her hair tied haphazardly in a ponytail. "Only way I can think of that someone got into Jansen's house is that they could go through walls," she says facetiously. "I mean, she had an alarm, which wasn't deactivated, and there was no forced entry."

Emily's shoulders drop. "Fantastic," she says, dropping her forehead on the table. It's the same answer they'd gotten hours ago, and her head is spinning once more, pizza or no. "That's just great."

* * *

_April 11, 2017, 12:00 P.M.  
Federal Correctional Institution, Edgefield  
Edgefield, South Carolina_

"What should we do now?"

Stephan Sanders, the primary warden for the institution, looks at the, for all intents and purposes, rent-a-cop. "Remind me exactly what happened again?" he asks through gritted teeth, looking at the computer screen that's blinking red, and the klaxons ringing throughout the prison.

The guard bites his lip, straightening. "Cell Block B was out for rec time. When their hour was up, we called them all back in, but one was missing."

"Dean Winchester," says Stephan, deadpan.

"Yes, sir."

"The same Dean Winchester who's been convicted of mass murder? Among countless other charges?"

"Yes, sir."

Stephan squeezes his nose with his fingers. He doesn't know why he wanted the confirmation of Dean's escape for the third time, as though if he kept asking, the facts would change and the guard would tell him that Dean's safe in his cell.

"We already sent out an alert," he says with a sigh, "to all law enforcement agencies in the country. If Dean's out there, we'll catch him."

The guard nods, trusting in Stephan's seniority that the words are true. Stephan orders him away, to go do his rounds. As for him, he leans against the desk, shoulders tense.

It isn't so much the simple fact that Dean escaped. He knows he shouldn't feel too horribly about that; after all, Dean had done the same from a supermax prison before, from the custody of the FBI to boot. Edgefield, being a meager medium-security prison, wouldn't have posed much of a threat. Don't get him wrong, Stephan's duly chastised himself that Dean had busted out on his watch, but he's confident that the law will once again catch the felon. And this time, Stephan knows, Dean won't be granted the same luxuries. Supermax until the end of Dean's days, if Stephan has any opinion on the matter.

What's more troubling to Stephan is the _reason_ behind Dean's escape. Judging by the incredibly short amount of time (not to mention the fluidity with which it was done) it'd taken to bust out, Dean could have made his move any time in the past four years. Before that, too, Stephan wagers. So why now? It's such a random time. It's not even like someone Dean knows had made contact with him. Oh, sure, Stephan had heard of Dean's call to an FBI agent, but he hadn't thought anything of it. Dean had consulted with the agency a while back, Stephan knows that as well; he was probably calling the agent to try and negotiate some other housing possibilities.

Stephan can't imagine Dean would break out just for that. Dean's not one of the stupid sociopaths Stephan's run across before—he's smart. Almost scarily so. Had Dean wanted to get transferred somewhere else or, crazily enough, released, there's no way he'd _escape_. If anything, he'd be on even better behavior than he already was.

As Stephan stares at the scrolling alert on the computer, he runs a hand over his face. Dean may not be in his domain anymore, but he has a dreaded feeling that he hasn't heard the end of this. Needless to say, he's going to have to prepare what he'll say to the inevitable question of how he managed to let one of the most famous murderers back out into society.

Fuck.

* * *

_April 12, 2017, 2:16 A.M.  
Peninsula Pointe Hotel – Room 217  
Manistique, Michigan_

After Reid had passed out literally in the middle of speaking, Hotch decided it was time they head back to the hotel. They'd stayed awake for longer before, but then, in those investigations, they'd usually had more progress than they do now. They'd all protested initially—sans Reid and Garcia, of course, who didn't look like they'd wake up even if a nuclear bomb went off—but had relented, glad the hotel was only a minute and a half away. If it were much farther, they feasibly would have had to pay for property damage from falling asleep while driving.

Emily had gotten a room next to Morgan and J.J., with Hotch, Rossi, and Reid taking the ones across from them. Emily had barely the motivation to brush her teeth, wash off her makeup, and throw on some pajamas before falling into bed, unable to concern herself with hanging up her clothes or move her bag and shoes from the middle of the room. She didn't even set her alarm, counting on someone else to get her up in the morning.

She's just getting to sleep, feeling the wonderful wisps of REM invade her mind when she hears a knock on the door. She ignores it at first, pulling a pillow over her head as if it would shoo away the intruder, but it keeps up, insistent. Finally, so pissed off she'd kick a puppy, she throws the covers from her body and walks to the door, not bothering to make herself even remotely presentable, the better to show that she's _really_ _not pleased_ to be disturbed.

"Morgan, I swear to God," she seethes loudly, walking across the room. She doesn't consider it'd be anyone else, given that Morgan would be the only one with the death wish—or balls—to knock on Emily Prentiss's door when she's sleep deprived. "Do you seriously _want _to be shot? Because—"

She stops short as she opens the door and she sees her visitor. Correction, she doesn't just stop short, she thinks her jaw drops open, too. "Hello…Agent Prentiss. Can I come in?"

Emily, still speechless, steps aside, vaguely noting what an irresponsible move it is. Her eyes sharp, she finds her voice. And her gun. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demands, her pistol pointed directly at his heart.

"A 'Hi, Dean, nice to see you again,' would have been a lot more neighborly," says Dean lightly. Noting the pile of clothes on the floor, Dean grins, "Well. Wouldn't have pegged you as the red lace type. But it's a nice surprise."

Emily's determined not to flush, and keeps her gun focused on Dean, wishing she'd taken the time to at least put on some sweatpants. It's rather cold. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demands again, watching Dean as he sits on her bed, thoroughly unafraid of her piece.

"I don't suppose you could lower your gun," Dean says, eyeing it. "I feel like it puts us on somewhat uneven ground."

"No."

Dean grants her that. He hadn't expected anything less. "Fine then," he says. "I'm guessing by now your analyst figured out I escaped."

"Yes," Emily replies, not wanting to get into just how Dean knew that. "And I'm not going to ask again—why did you come here? At _two in the fucking morning_?"

Laughing, Dean glances over at the clock, as if he hadn't realized the time at all. "Funny that you're more concerned about the time of night than having a serial killer in your hotel room," he comments shrewdly.

Emily shrugs one shoulder, thinking longingly of how her fellow agents must be deep in dreamland by now. Whereas here she is, holding a pistol on a man who, just a few hours ago, she'd thought to be tightly behind bars, in scant nightclothes, and, to add insult to injury, beyond enervated.

She's not a happy camper.

"Dean, so help me, I will put a bullet through your brain," she says impatiently, her aim more than corroborating her words. "Either get to the damn point or get out of my room and stay away."

Not only because of her threats, but mainly because Dean's fatigued himself (fourteen straight hours of driving will do that to you), he gives up on the games. "I just came to help," he answers. "I told you that I couldn't do anything for you in prison."

"So you broke out and drove a thousand miles?" Emily asks, for a moment caught off-guard. She'd believed that Dean honestly did want to help them, but she hadn't thought he'd be _that_ devoted.

Dean nods simply, as if breaking out of prison and stealing cars is a regular occurrence. Which, she allows, was probably par for his course once upon a time. "When I'm on a hunt, I don't do well in confined spaces," he replies. "I had to get out of there."

Emily, much as she would prefer to distance herself from him, kind of gets where he's coming from. When she straps on her Kevlar vest, pulls her hair into a ponytail, takes her gun out of its holster and approaches an unsub's residence, the adrenaline and excitement flowing through her veins makes even the car ride over seem too long and too claustrophobic. Dean's use of the word "hunt" is a little odd, but then, this is Dean. She imagines he's got more than a couple screws loose.

Telling herself it's not just because she wants to go to bed, Emily sighs and lowers her weapon, setting it on the nightstand. She has a feeling that if Dean wished her harm, he could have already done so. Moreover, the dark circles underneath his eyes, the rumpled—thieved—clothes sitting loosely on his frame, and the slouched way he sits tell her he's just as exhausted as she is.

Besides, she knows nothing she can say would convince him to leave Michigan. "All right," she relents. "I'll…I'll find some way to explain this in the morning. But right now, I need to get to sleep."

Dean nods, and gives her a half-smile. "Thank you," he says sincerely. Hitching a thumb in the general direction of the door, he goes on, "I'll just spend the night in the car, catch up with you tomorrow."

He starts to leave, when the phenomenally less rational part of Emily's mind decides to take control of her mouth. "Wait," she says, and Dean turns around, confused. "Just crash here for tonight. The chair turns into a bed, I think; it won't be all that comfortable, but it'll be a hell of a lot more so than the backseat of a car."

He stares at her like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn't. Grateful, Dean nods. Not deigning to even kick off his shoes, he grabs an extra blanket from the closet and pulls out the quasi-bed, dropping himself gracelessly into it. Even as Emily watches, it's mere seconds before Dean's body loses the majority of its tension, his breaths even out, and he de-ages fifteen years.

Commanding herself to stop the thoughts lest they make her even more sympathetic towards him than she already is, she walks over to the wall and shuts off the light, climbing once more into her bed. She's so tired she can't quite muster up the awkwardness she should feel that _Dean Winchester_ is not but ten feet away from her on the chair, softly snoring.

She closes her eyes, barely registering the generic soapy (with an afterthought of leather) scent that she realizes must be from Dean, and this time, her slumber is blissfully uninterrupted.

* * *

_The closer we are to danger, the farther we are from harm._  
— Pippin


	5. Part V

A/N: I stole two lines from another TV show in this chapter…virtual cookie to those who catch them.

* * *

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

**Part V**

* * *

_April 12, 2017, 9:35 A.M.  
Peninsula Pointe Hotel – Room 217  
Manistique, Michigan_

Emily's not entirely sure what wakes her, but at half past nine, she jolts up with no small amount of confusion, and is immediately bombarded with a massive fatigue headache. There's a strange, not entirely unpleasant, scent in the air, like—

"Morning, princess."

Her thoughts interrupted, Emily startles back against the headboard at seeing her new roommate. Dean's sitting across the room from her in the pullout that he'd transformed back into a chair, the blankets pristinely folded on the cushion. He unconcernedly sips a hot cup of coffee, staring at her intently.

"I got you one, too," he says, reaching over to the table and tapping a second cup. "But you might want to shower first. You look like you've spent days working an unworkable case."

Emily glares at him. "That's so nice of you," she says dryly. As she gets out from under the covers, she notices that Dean's hair is damp, and his outfit had changed. She admits this one fits substantially better than the previous, but it rouses suspicion.

"Where have you been?"

"What? Nowhere," Dean lies smoothly, taking another drink of his coffee. "I took a shower, if that's what's freaking you out."

"Your clothes," Emily says, taking a step closer. "They're new."

Dean gives up, knowing he should have realized a profiler would be harder to fool than a regular passerby. "I'll pay you back, I promise," he says, looking genuinely apologetic.

Emily narrows her eyes, and Dean takes out a very familiar wallet from his jeans, tossing it over to her. She catches it reflexively, and looks inside, only to discover thirty missing from it. "How'd you find this?" she asks. After her wallet had been stolen once years back when she worked in Chicago, she'd always hidden it in a place only she would remember.

Smiling innocently, Dean says, "Sam and I used the same stuff-in-the-mattress trick. Law enforcement has more techniques in common with delinquents than you'd think, Emily."

"It's Prentiss to you," she snaps, miffed over the money thing. She reaches under her pillow to where she'd placed her gun, but finds it's gone, too. Gritting her teeth, she peers at Dean again.

As if legitimately forgetting he had it, Dean relieves the nine-mil from his waistband. "Sorry," he says. "Force of habit."

"Where did you go?" she requests again, taking her weapon from Dean. There's no bullets missing, which thankfully meant Dean hadn't relapsed—yet.

"To get clothes, thought we'd settled that," Dean replies perplexedly.

Emily glares. "Don't you lie to me," she commands firmly. "No one brings a gun to a _clothing_ store."

"You never know," says Dean, "that saleswoman looked pretty shifty."

There's a glint in his eyes that makes Emily roll hers. "Those cost way more than thirty, didn't they?"

All Dean does is smile and put his legs up on the edge of her bed. She almost laughs at how his charm evidently hadn't faded even after so many traumatic experiences and near a decade in prison. Had she not been, you know, pissed.

A knock at her door cuts off any next words she might have. Emily walks quickly to it and looks through the peephole. "One second," she calls, and then turns on Dean. "Get out of here. Now."

Dean's plainly humoring her, but retreats to the bathroom. Emily makes sure he's out of sight, runs her fingers briefly through her hair for a semblance of a brushing, and opens the door. She's not surprised that Hotch is already in his suit, straight face firmly in place, even though he's always the last to go to bed (well, except perhaps this last night, thanks to Dean's arrival), and the first to rise.

He averts his eyes at her relative state of undress. "Sorry, I thought—"

Emily looks down, completely forgetting that she hadn't changed out of her pajamas. A robe suddenly falls at her feet, and she glances to her left to see Dean leaning against the bathroom doorframe. Pursing her lips, Emily shrugs it on and turns back to Hotch.

"You need me back at the station?" she asks, anticipating both the question and answer.

"Yes," Hotch says, finally looking back at her. "Everyone's up—well, except for Morgan. He can sleep like the dead."

Chuckling, Emily can easily picture this. Morgan's a very apt profiler and marksman, but when he's not on a stakeout or chase, he's remarkably lazy. "I'll be out in fifteen."

Abruptly, Hotch frowns, looking past Emily into the hotel room. Her heart pauses, hoping he doesn't say anything. "Are you…wearing perfume?" he inquires awkwardly.

"What? No," she says, schooling her voice. "Why?"

Hotch shakes his head as if to clear it, and Emily's heart resumes its rhythm. "Nothing," he replies. "Just—just get down to the station as quickly as you can. And bring Morgan. Break down the door if you have to."

Emily nods. "Got it."

After one more frown, Hotch leaves down the hallway, and Emily closes the door after him. "That was Hotchner, right?" Dean questions as soon as she does so. "The monotony is familiar."

"Yes," she says impatiently. "Look, I'm going to shower, and then I need to get down to the P.D.—do _not_ leave this room."

"Scout's honor," recites Dean, making a gesture with his left fingers that's vaguely reminiscent to its namesake.

Emily walks past him into the bathroom. "Wrong hand," she says, before shutting Dean out with a snap.

An instant later, he hears the lock click and the water start. He gives it a few seconds before crossing the floor and finding the hotel-supplied notepad and pen. Scribbling on it, he leaves it next to Emily's gun on the bed.

"Sorry, Em," he says, glancing at the closed bathroom door. "I've never been good with rules."

Quickly making sure none of the rest of the BAU is in the hall, Dean makes his way downstairs and outside, starting up the Jeep and pulling out into the road.

* * *

It's not far to the home of Kari Jansen's best friend, Mitchell Owens, the address for which Dean had nicked an hour ago while Emily was still asleep. He had predicted her order for him to stay put, and so had taken all the necessary precautions and made contingency plans. He assumes the team will get their heads together at the police department before they go for round two on witness statements and crime scene observations. Which leaves him with a small window within which to do his own recon.

* * *

Her shower is shorter than normal, a fact about which she's not happy, the time reduction primarily due to not only Hotch's constraint, but her anxiety over what to do about Dean. It doesn't take her long to get dressed and go through her other morning rituals, but when she steps out of the bathroom, she instantly knows something's awry. Dean's nowhere to be seen, and when she notices the message on the comforter, she gets an even deeper sense of dread.

Picking it up, she reads the text, Dean's handwriting rushed but legible.

_Emily—  
Had to do some things. Back later._  
— _Dean_

_P.S. Don't worry, I have lots of practice dodging the Feds._

Emily closes her eyes with a sigh (while also ignoring Dean's blatant use of her first name). Kicking herself because she really should have known better—though, she notes, at least Dean hadn't taken anything from her this time—she packs up all she'll need for the next dozen hours or so, and rushes out the door. She's halfway down the hall before she remembers the other part of Hotch's request.

Striding quickly to room 218, she pounds on the entrance sharply. "Morgan!" she yells. "Get your ass out here!"

In reality, it's only about forty seconds until he answers, but to her, it was long enough to where she was about two away from breaking in out of sheer impatience. Emily guesses that Hotch's own banging on Morgan's room got him up, because when he greets her, he's dressed and ready, sliding his own gun into its holster as he walks outside.

"You're not usually so much of a nag, Prentiss," he comments as they make their way down to the FBI-issue SUVs. "Something happen?"

Emily snaps her eyes over to her partner and then back to the car. "No," she replies hastily. "Just tired is all."

Morgan watches her askance for a couple moments, before evidently deciding that she's either just already caffeinated and is telling the truth, or else she's not going to tell him regardless of what he says, so there's no point in trying. He knows that if it's something detrimental or of great import, she wouldn't lie. He wouldn't team up with her repeatedly if he didn't trust her.

"Okay," he says slowly, getting into the driver's seat.

Emily looks out the window at the quaint town as Morgan heads towards the police station, wondering how long she can keep Dean's presence from him. She doesn't doubt her secret-keeping abilities, but in this instance, she sincerely doubts she can hold Morgan off for long. The only unknown at this point is what she's going to use as an explanation.

* * *

_April 12, 2017, 9:48 A.M.  
Home of Mitchell Owens  
Manistique, Michigan_

Dean pulls up against the curb outside Mitchell's home, taking a few seconds to simply stare at the small, New England-style residence, reveling in how _normal_ it feels to once again be preparing to adopt an alias in order to glean information from someone. He'd thought it'd come with more nervousness, but to be honest, it feels just as familiar as busting out of prison had.

Taking a breath, Dean gets out of the Jeep and walks up the steps to knock on Mitchell's door. When the twenty-something answers, it's obvious he's still in deep mourning for Kari, eyes red and outfit looking like he'd been wearing it for the past week.

Making sure his distressed mask is firmly in place, Dean cries, "Is it true? Is Kari dead?"

Mitchell flinches at the name of his best friend, but nods. "Wh-Who are you?" he asks.

"Simon Kirke," says Dean, gambling correctly that Mitchell wouldn't know his Bad Company band members. "Kari was a really good friend of mine in grad school."

"Sh-She never m-mentioned you," says Mitchell, voice cracking.

Dean adds in a touch of hurt to his hysteria. "We sort of had a falling out," he explains. "But I never stopped caring about her."

Nodding, Mitchell opens the door further and steps away from it, allowing Dean to come in. "You want something?" he inquires, shuffling toward the kitchen. "Beer, soda, water…?"

"Beer would be great right about now," says Dean, taking a seat on the dilapidated couch and looking around the room. It's nothing special, nothing besides a clock and a few photos adorning the walls; for that matter, Dean observes, all the pictures are of either Mitchell and Kari, or Kari herself. "Denial much?" Dean murmurs to himself.

Mitchell returns with two Old Milwaukees in his hand and passes one to Dean, sitting in a chair next to the couch. Dean pops off the beer cap with his ring—which he'd convinced the guards at all three prisons to let him keep (his necklace is a whole other story…)—and doesn't raise his bottle to Mitchell. For the sole reason that the man looks as if any possible mention of Kari's death would set him off in tears.

However, Dean does have a job to do.

"So, um, Mitchell," he begins, taking a sip of the liquor and then setting it on the table, "have the cops harassed you too much?"

Mitchell shrugs almost imperceptibly. "Usual questions you see on _Law & Order_," he replies quietly. "Was Kari s-suicidal…did I have anything to do with it…did she have any enemies…"

"Yeah. They don't usually have any kind of decorum," sympathizes Dean, the sentiment only partially a ruse.

"You've been on the other side of it?" Mitchell inquires hopefully.

Dean smiles blandly. "A few years ago, m'brother, he—he passed," he says, trying his best not to wince. "Passed" isn't exactly even in the _realm_ of the word Dean sees as fit. Murdered…butchered…slaughtered…any of those terms would more precisely define just what he'd done to Sam. "This son of a bitch killed him, actually. He was a year younger than Kari. Had a lot to live for. I feel like I coulda saved him."

"I'm sure it was out of your hands," says Mitchell, glad to be on a subject other than Kari.

"Sure," manages Dean, almost wishing the guy knew just how contrary Sam's death was to what he suggested. It was far from out of his hands. Unclenching his fist from the beer bottle once he realizes he's probably close to cracking the glass, Dean goes on, "Listen, uh…I don't want to ask this, but I gotta know. You have any idea what happened to Kari? Did she mention anything abnormal? The cops don't know jack, last I heard. I mean, I understand if it's too hard or whatever, but she meant a lot to me, too, you know?"

At first, it seems as if Mitchell would clam up again, but then he lets out a fragmented breath, picking at the label of his bottle. "I didn't tell the cops this, but…she'd come over late a few times the past couple days. She said she'd had nightmares, pretty bad ones."

"Was that normal for her?" Dean prompts once Mitchell stalls.

He shakes his head. "No. She'd had a bad dream now and then, like all of us, but…this was different. It really rattled her."

"Did she say what they were about?"

"She didn't know," answers Mitchell, with something in the vicinity of a doleful chuckle. "She just knew that once she snapped out of it, she was really shaken. She said she felt like she was going to—to die."

Dean attempts to react as an outsider would, but internally, he's thinking this is only cementing the theory that he'd had back in Edgefield. He can't quite remember the specific name of what he believes is causing the deaths, but he's well aware that so far, all evidence from this case is matching the description. He's also cognizant of the fact that if he pushes Mitchell any further (today, anyway), the man is going to shut down for good; also, that Emily, Morgan, and the rest of them over at the police department aren't going to get anywhere without his direct assistance.

He thanks Mitchell for the beer, shares condolences, and then exits the house. He'd originally planned to go to all three victims' homes and do some more investigating, but Mitchell's response had been enough for the immediacy. Now, he just hopes none of the Manistiquans remembers him.

* * *

_April 12, 2017, 9:50 A.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

Emily and Morgan arrive as the rest of the team is finishing up getting their coffee and taking their spots around the conference table. Rossi kindly enough hands the two some mugs of steaming coffee, of which they are genuinely appreciative.

"Now that we've got a little rest," starts J.J. from her spot at the head of the table, "I think we can make some headway on this. I think the answer's just out of reach; we only need one more piece of the puzzle to crack it."

Emily tries her hardest not to look shady as she thinks of Dean roaming around Manistique—or, potentially, other towns—doing God knows what. She takes a long drag of her drink lest her mouth decide to blurt out something that her mind doesn't want it to.

"Anyone want to start?" J.J. forwards, looking between her five fellow agents.

Reid pipes up with another theory (which Emily tunes out almost instantly once she recognizes it as an old _Star Trek_ plot), Garcia—who had joined them for the purpose that she'd come to similar dead ends on the computer front—critiquing it, when Sheriff Yardis comes bursting into the room.

"Sheriff, what—" Hotch exclaims, but is cut off before he can say much. An action that usually would not be tolerated. Unless, of course—

"A boy was just found dead," says Yardis somberly. Everyone exchanges worried and shocked glances at the information. "He was staying with his grandmother, who woke up twenty minutes ago and discovered his body."

J.J. puts on her stoic media liaison face. "What do you know about him?"

"Xander Nathanson," says Yardis in a strangled voice. "He is—was—nine years old."

J.J.'s face shatters. Hotch's becomes more strained than normal. "Nine?" J.J. repeats faintly. It's no secret that Henry is the exact same age.

"How did he die?" Morgan asks, trying to steer the conversation to more facts, less emotion. He's no less distressed over the age and death of the boy, but the sooner they figure out the vitals, the sooner they can track down his—and the other three victims'—killer.

"We don't know," says Yardis dejectedly.

"What?"

"We don't know," the sheriff says again. "It's like he just…died. There's no markings of any kind on his body, nothing in his room is out of place. Maybe the coroner can find something, but…far as we can tell, he's in perfect health. Except that he's…he's…"

Emily waves him off. "We're doing the best we can," she reports, knowing that it does nothing to ease anyone's grief.

Yardis nods, then hovers for a few seconds before hurrying out of the room, unsure of what to do with himself. "We need to keep focus," says Hotch, tossing a whiteboard pen to Morgan to add Nathanson's name and limited-as-of-now stats to the list of victims. "The unsub has moved up his timetable from six days between murders to five. It's not much, but he could continue to do so."

Emily looks down at her folder of papers, when something alerts her peripheral. She glances up, and, had she taken a drink of her coffee, she would have surely spit it all over the table.

His back is turned from her, but the shorn haircut, lackadaisical posture, and clothes are unmistakable. Without a second thought, she quickly excuses herself and walks out of the room as swiftly as Yardis had. Striding up to him, she yanks him out of view of her colleagues, into a deserted alcove.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dean?" she hisses, unable to believe the gall he'd had to waltz into a police station.

"Always nice to see you," he comments. "All right, look. I'm not here for kicks; I hate . I'm here because I have something that'll help you."

Emily lets out a kind of exasperated scoff. "I don't have time for this," she says. "A new body was just found, a nine-year-old boy, and—"

"What?" Dean sputters, screeching to a halt.

"Yeah," replies Emily, oddly gratified to see the horrification in Dean's expression. "Just—please, just go back to the hotel and _stay there_. If someone sees you here…"

Dean's not intimidated. "Sorry. No can do," he says. "This is gonna go down one of two ways: either you introduce me, or I walk in there. But either situation is going to result in you letting me in on this case."

She's the farthest thing from fond of Dean's assertiveness, as if he has authority over her, but she's both too exhausted to argue and is having harder and harder of a time thinking of justifications for not incorporating him.

"Okay," she says finally. "But stay behind me, and remember that _you're_ the criminal here. You've got no jurisdiction."

Dean knows agreeing is the only way to convince Emily, and so even though he has no intention of letting the FBI run this particular show, he smiles.

"Deal."

* * *

_Faith is for those afraid to admit they just don't know. It's okay to not know._

— Anonymous


	6. Part VI

Sorry for the delay, folks. My computer hard drive crashed, and I just recently got it back up and running, and am still sorting through some files and setting and stuff. But on the plus side, I did get some writing done. In my Anthro and math classes, naturally. Thanks so much for your patience, and hopefully this will never happen again. And for those of you who follow my Supernatural/Dark Angel crossover, I hope to have that up by tomorrow afternoon.

Also, instead of the usual quote at the end, there's an excerpt of a short story (not mine). It just fit, I thought, better than a simple quote would. You'll see why.

* * *

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

**Part VI

* * *

**

_April 12, 2017, 9:54 A.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

Dean follows Emily slowly, nothing short of amused. He waits out of sight for the point at which he feels will cause him the most humor. (Though, granted, also the least bodily harm.)

"Um…there's something I have to tell you," she's saying, voice delayed as if to put off the inevitable.

"Pertinent?" asks Hotch shortly, still deeply affected by the news of the latest murder.

Dean smiles and takes the unintended cue to make himself known, leaning against the doorframe, outwardly smug, but internally wary and making note of possible modes of escape. "I'd say so," he smirks, looking first at Emily's face, and then at the stunned ones of the rest of the room. He does enjoy making an entrance.

Of course, his smirk drops remarkably fast when both J.J. and Hotch's weapons come up and point straight at his heart. He has no illusions Morgan's would have joined them, had he not been catching Emily's eye with a look that's not quite a "What the fuck is going on?" but rather "I thought we agreed to the _opposite_ of this."

Which makes Dean unexpectedly feel a flicker of happiness that Morgan had, however reluctantly, been in support of Emily in this matter. Judging by everyone else's expressions, on the other hand, Dean doubts they had any semblance of an inkling that he'd been in contact with one—by extension, three—of their own.

"Oh, come on," says Dean, raising his hands up, "are the guns really necessary? It ain't like I'm going to go on a homicidal rampage."

"Dean," warns Emily exasperatedly. "Please."

"Shut up," snaps Hotch to the man who, forty seconds ago, he'd believed to be safely behind bars. "What are you doing here? _How_ are you here?"

Dean glances from Emily to Morgan, and then, when the latter looks to his right, Garcia. She's withholding—poorly—a smile, and Dean quirks his mouth. He can tell she's in the loop about him, which makes only four more agents that he has to win over.

Or, if not totally win over, tolerate his presence enough so he's not riddled with .45 slugs by lunchtime.

Rossi takes over for Hotch, whose vein in his temple is throbbing dangerously. "What is this, Prentiss?" Rossi inquires, unfazed and leaned back relaxedly in his chair.

Dean gets the sense that the man is a large believer in first impressions, and fortunately, Dean thinks he passed the tenured agent's test. At the very least, didn't immediately put him off. And that leaves just Hotch and the lovely woman who had alerted Dean, indirectly of course, to the case in the first place.

Really, Dean muses, he owes her. Had she not made the press conference, he'd still be wasting away in prison, folding sheets with a deadbeat who has no modicum of oral hygiene whatsoever. Admittedly, he doesn't see this as quite the right time to bring that up. Perhaps in a few days. And when J.J.'s not armed. Come to think of it, he wagers, this may require jewelry.

"Okay, first of all, I did not break, or help to break, him out of jail. He did that all by himself," explains Emily in more of a sheepish voice than Dean'd ever heard. She looks at Morgan again for help, but he's not so inclined. "But, uh…I may have talked with him."

"Excuse me?" J.J. exclaims, still aiming her weapon at Dean's chest. "You mean _after_ we consulted with him four years ago?"

Emily nods miserably, and Dean takes pity on her. Mainly because while she did answer his call like she promised, he'd done most of the questionable stuff. "If you're gonna get mad at anyone, get mad at me," he asserts, noting Emily's surprise. "She gave me her card back then in case I ever…well, anyway. I saw your press conference, Agent Jareau, and thought I could help. Emily here—sorry, _Agent Prentiss_—wasn't able to get me out of prison even temporarily, so I had to do it by my lonesome." Dean passes his eyes from J.J.'s perilous gaze to Hotch, and back again. "Look. I just came to help. Promise."

The two exchange a significant glance and, upon silently communicating, lower their weapons. "Both of you, sit," commands Hotch.

Dean shuts the door and takes a chair between a now seated Emily and Rossi, figuring they're the people that, aside from Garcia, are least likely to strangle him. "Man, you _all_ look like crap," Dean comments blithely, sizing up his companions behind a smarmy mask.

Hotch lets out a noise comparable to a growl, and Morgan's eyes are daggers. It's not an untrue statement, but it doesn't mean they want to _hear _it. Rossi leans towards Dean, his face sober but not particularly unkind. "Mr. Winchester, now would be a great time to shut the hell up," he suggests calmly. "All of us would really like to hit something right now, and while I doubt Garcia would participate, I can't say the same for anyone else."

Dean's not much for listening to people a lot of the time, but Rossi's words do nothing but corroborate the atmosphere of the room. Dean nods almost imperceptibly, dropping the smartass façade and, with it, bringing back the shadowed contours in his face. After which Rossi almost wishes he'd had just kept the first expression; it's unnerving to see Dean's young age saddled with lines similar to Rossi's own.

But ultimately, it's not up to him.

Neither man, nor anyone else, says anything for a while, Hotch and J.J. seemingly too antagonized—whether at Emily or Dean (maybe both), Emily doesn't know—and the rest appearing to choose the least tense time to speak. Unfortunately, such a time hasn't yet revealed itself.

Until Reid, of all people, intercedes. His voice smaller than usual, he pipes up, "I think we should listen to what he has to say."

"He's a _criminal_, Reid," J.J. retorts. "A _murderer_."

"Wasn't such a big deal last time," Reid snipes, astonishing everyone with his vehemence. "We were at a loss for information then, and he provided the clue we needed. Now we're in the same situation. Are you pissed because he broke out of prison and committed some crimes, or because you think he can find something we didn't?"

"Reid," says Morgan lowly, watching their unit chief and liaison's faces which are, predictably, taken aback.

"I'm serious," persists Reid, ignoring Morgan. "Look. I wouldn't even consider this if he hadn't helped us before. But he _has_. And I'd think we would do just about anything to stop these killings. And anyway, Dean's hardly the worst guy we could work with."

"How do you figure?" asks J.J. "There's that pesky, you know, _mass murder thing_."

"You gotta keep bringing that up?" snaps Dean. A few jibes he'll allow, even if he is innocent from the homicide charges. But after a while, it starts to get vexing. Particularly when it makes them doubt his abilities or alliances. "Could you put that aside for two friggin' seconds?"

J.J. stares at him, her blue eyes probing to the point of making him more than a little uncomfortable. Dean appraises his intent for a moment, deciding if it'd clinch or ruin his chances, but takes the risk.

"You don't have any leads for any of your four victims. You really want to tell the mother of a nine-year-old that you can't locate his killer?"

J.J. flinches, and Hotch's hands curl into fists. "How do you know about that?" asks Morgan.

"Heard the cops talking about it a couple minutes ago. News travels fast in a town this size."

"Dean, you're not really helping yourself here," remarks Emily softly.

"No, you know what?" J.J. proposes forcefully. "Never thought I'd say this, but Dean's right." Hotch looks at her in shock. Dean looks at her with more.

"I am?" he inquires with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah," she replies. "I can't imagine ever losing Henry. And I know that if some monster ever—ever murdered him, I wouldn't accept that the police or FBI couldn't find the guy. If they weren't able to, I—I'd try to find him myself."

Dean perks up at J.J.'s use of the word "monster," purely out of reflex, but in this circumstance, he's pretty sure she just means some human psychopath. He's not going to mention that right now. Not when his status of being integrated officially into the investigation (leastways into the BAU, anyhow) is up in the air. He has a feeling that even if the rest of the team were on board, it's Hotch he really needs to sway.

"I just want to get this guy, Agent Hotchner," says Dean with a practiced amount of respectful intensity. "If you really don't want me here, I'll bail. I swear. But if there's the tiniest chance you think I could add something…"

Hotch doesn't respond, and Dean sighs. "Fine. It's been fun, Emily," he says to the woman who'd dared give him a shot.

Regarding each person in the room perfunctorily, he strides out, leaving solid terseness in his wake, no one finding the fortitude to hold anyone else's eye.

Emily's the first to sever it, straightening and staring straight at her boss. "Nice, Hotch," she says coldly. She'd never had that tone to her superior before, but she's not sorry about it. She has reason. "You just sent away our last hope of getting the unsub. Congrats."

Mouth in a fine line, she stands up brusquely from her chair and hurries out of the room. "Dean!" she calls out in the precinct, not caring about the officers that look up strangely at her. Dean's nowhere in sight, and she swallows angry regret.

It's maybe half a minute before she feels a hand on her shoulder, and knows it's Morgan without needing to hear any sound. "Hey," he says, a tone of his own regret in the word.

"Thanks for the help," she says sarcastically.

"Don't even start with that," he says firmly, even as he's aware that he's just a scapegoat for her pique with Hotch and frustration with Dean. He rubs a hand over his neck in vacillation. "You want me to help you find him?"

Emily looks at him, surprised. "What?"

"We can go back to what we originally planned," he elaborates. "Have Dean assist us, just keep it under the radar."

Emily rolls her eyes. "'Cause that worked out so well last time."

Morgan shrugs. "You got a better idea?" he asks. "It's up to Hotch to have Dean consult officially. But I think if we tried hard enough, we could confer with Dean and keep Hotch in the dark."

"Just Hotch?"

"If we have to," Morgan replies. "Seems like everyone else is on board with this. I'm not saying we have to let them all in on this, but…I dunno, maybe. Rossi or J.J. at least. Reid isn't the best at keeping secrets that aren't his own."

Emily chooses not to comment on Morgan's candor about Reid, even though she hadn't guessed the words would come out of his mouth. He's usually extremely protective of the nerd. "It doesn't matter now anyway," Emily says. "Dean's gone. He made disappearing his living for years. What are the odds we'd actually be able to catch up with him?"

Morgan smiles shrewdly. "Call me crazy, but I don't think Dean was telling the truth," he replies. "I don't know the dude very well, but he doesn't strike me as a person who'd give up on a puzzle, despite the fact that he wasn't in on it in the first place."

"You think he'll stick around? Try and solve this himself?"

"It's a possibility," says Morgan. "In which case, it shouldn't be all that hard to pinpoint his location. Manistique is small, and much as I hate to admit it, Dean's face and demeanor is pretty hard to forget."

Emily chuckles ironically—he's not wrong. "You really think we can head him off?" she asks insecurely.

Morgan prays she doesn't see his falter. Truth be, his confidence level is hovering around the fifty-eight percent range. He doesn't need Reid to tell him that's not great. "Yeah," he says regardless, putting on false bravado. "I think we have a good chance of it."

Smiling, Emily nods. "Thanks," she says sincerely. "For…you know."

Morgan returns the smile, but feels guilty about doing so. Even though he trusts his own facilities, he'll readily admit that Dean's a sneaky son of a bitch with street smarts to rival some of the perps Morgan'd put away. He has more than a lot of his own, growing up in Chicago and being a beat cop there for a while, but Dean's entire livelihood had depended on him successfully evading capture and improvising on the drop of a hat.

He doesn't want to let Emily down (which is the primary argument of why he'd told her they can get hold of Dean again), but to himself, he's thinking that it'll take nothing less than a miracle to do so. Really, the only good thing that's come out of this whole mess is that apart from Hotch, Morgan's reasonably positive that Dean'd somehow convinced the BAU to trust him—okay, not _trust_ per se, but allow to lend his skills to the investigation.

Still, if they can't locate him, it'll all be worthless. Worse, they'll be back at square one. And top off the whole damn SNAFU, they're running out of time before not only do they have to inform Xander Nathanson's mother that they have no clue who killed her son, but in which to catch the murderer.

* * *

_April 12, 2017, 10:21 A.M.  
Michigan Highway 77  
Near Blaney Park, Michigan_

Dean's not entirely sure where he's going, beyond that it's vaguely north. It isn't like he plans to go all the way to Canada or anything (honestly, he really doesn't have the energy to forge a passport), but for the moment, he's just driving. It's a stress reliever that's always worked. Well…except for now, evidently.

Letting out a heavy breath, he pulls over to the shoulder of the highway, shutting off the Jeep and leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wheel. He wishes he had some aspirin, or at least some whiskey, to take the edge off, to calm his nerves that feel like they've run into an electric fence. Repeatedly.

He doesn't really realize just how long he'd been in that one position until he hears a sharp rap on the window. Nearly jolting out of his skin—and hating that he had; when the hell had he become so fucking jumpy?—he slides his eyes left, not moving his head. He does, however, when he recognizes the uniform and gadgets of a highway patrol officer.

He's determined not to lose form or appear suspicious and so, upset that he doesn't have even a measly pocketknife for confidence, he rolls down the window, looking the cop straight in the eye. Show no fear. Show no skeeviness.

"Can I help you, Officer?" asks Dean casually.

"You all right, son?" the cop replies, peering in the car in what Dean assumes was meant to be a subtle manner. "We got a call 'bout a vehicle parked on the side of the road."

Dean stops himself from rolling his eyes, feeling that probably wouldn't be the wisest move. "I've just been drivin' for a while," he explains without missing a beat. "I'm comin' from Independence, going to see my sister up in Grand Marais. Been drivin' for about thirteen hours now, needed an hour or two of rest is all."

The cop studies Dean's face for a couple seconds, thankfully not questioning why he would stop for a nap when he's a mere hour out from his purported destination. "Y'know, you look kinda familiar," the officer observes curiously. "You been through here before?"

_Great. Just awesome_, Dean grumbles to himself.

"No, sir," he answers, keeping the anxiety out of his voice. If the cop accurately identified him…

"All right, then," replies the officer, shaking his head a little. "Well, look, you should get yourself to a motel, or at least a rest stop for a while. Dangerous to be driving when you're tired."

Nodding, Dean plasters on a fake, but not overly so, smile. "Yes, sir," he agrees. "Sorry about the disturbance."

The cop relaxes, succumbing to Dean's non-threatening, calm exterior, and taps the window frame in farewell. "Take care, son," he says, walking back to his cruiser.

Dean watches as the black and white Crown Vic joins the other traffic, bright sun glinting off the lights on the roof. He starts up the engine and puts the car into gear, staring out at the endless asphalt in front of him.

After no fewer than three decisions and reconsiderations, Dean reaches over to the passenger seat and retrieves some folders from underneath his jacket. On the tabs of the manila in thick black Sharpie reads:

**LEVIN, AMITA – 3/26/17**

**BELTWAY, ZACHARY – 4/1/17**

**JANSEN, KARI – 4/7/17**

**NATHANSON, ALEXANDER – 4/12/17**

Inside, pictures stare up at him in glaring technicolor, and field observations and M.E. reports lay out bluntly the specifics. Dean imagines the department is wondering how they'd managed to lose the folders—it'd been pathetically easy to nick them, truthfully; though, to be fair, the police and agents were all stretched to their limits—but he also imagines that they'd made copies. Not that it'd matter much at this point. If they hadn't made any progress with the first three victims by now, Xander's death wouldn't provide anything new off of which they could work.

Dean scans through the reports, his trained eye skipping over the filler and going straight to the necessary, acutely studying the photographs. In his gut, he knows this case'll be harder to crack than the last one, due only in part to the fact that all it'd taken, essentially, for the thing back in Manchester was some _Where's Waldo?_ prowess. Which, Dean has to say, had come part and parcel with cross-country hunting trips (it'd only required one drive from New York to Oklahoma for him to pinpoint the real Waldo in the Land of Waldos, much to a seven-year-old Sam's chagrin). Especially around the central and southern states, owing to I Spy only allowing two answers: tumbleweed, or thundercloud.

Though he told the BAU he'd overheard the cops talking about Xander's murder, he in reality didn't hear any details. Just that the boy was nine, and that the cause of death was virtually unknown. A reason why Dean dreads getting to the last file.

That dread is immediately made founded when he sees the before and after pictures. The photo of him alive is with what must be the family dog, a chocolate Labrador whose head rests on a laughing Xander's shoulder in the hopes of getting the slice of pizza in his master's hand.

Dean himself had only ever had a dog once, a large Border Collie that had apparently been a stray in this Podunk town he, Sam, and John were staying in. He was fourteen and Sam was ten, and John was off on a four-week hunt, leaving his boys to the dingy motel room. The dog would wander around the parking lot every so often, searching for scraps of food, and although Dean had resisted the thing the first couple times he saw it, he couldn't turn away the big brown eyes and earnest face forever.

Without Sam's consent (not that Sam _minded_), Dean coached the dog into the room, marveling at how the carpet was so stained that the muddy pawprints weren't distinguishable from the other marks. He carefully washed every speck of dirt from the dog's mangy fur, and when he was done, it was pristine. That coupled with half of Dean's cheeseburger that night had the dog following him around like a shadow.

The first couple days that Dean and Sam left the dog for school, it'd barked enough to where the motel owner threatened the boys with a belt, but firm "No"s from Dean to the dog soon stopped it. He was free to roam outside while they were away, but, somehow knowing the time of day, was always at the street, sitting happily as you please, when Sam and Dean walked back from school. He'd bowled Sam over more than once, causing bruises and scrapes, and had even knocked Dean back a couple steps, but frankly, neither gave a damn.

The dog was theirs, really the only thing they could rely on (Dean chooses determinedly not to ruminate on how wrong that is), and although its diet wasn't exactly Purina, it was content. The three of them were. And when the lights were out, and Sam was asleep but Dean wasn't for fear of the nightmares he'd not-so-occasionally get, the dog would jump onto Dean's bed.

He took up the majority of it, worming over to Dean's side and pressing his nose into Dean's arm, but he soon found that when the dog was next to him, the nightmares would cease. He'd never told anyone—come on, that's kinda girly—but nevertheless, whenever Dean gave the slightest of uncomfortable movements, the dog would be there in a flash.

Sam and Dean were so caught up in the dog and in schoolwork that they didn't notice the weeks go by. It was late, past midnight, when a key sounded in the door, twisting in the lock. Sam and Dean jerked awake, and Dean lost his space heater as the dog leaped off the bed, hair raised and a low growl that neither brother had ever witnessed sounding deep in his throat.

The door opened, and Dean realized it was John just a second too late. The dog, not recognizing the intruder, bounded across the room and tackled the already injured hunter. John, hardly expecting the attack, was jarred off balance, falling onto the carpet with a dull thud. Dean called out for the dog to stop, but as far as it knew, there was someone endangering its family, and it wouldn't have any of that. John lashed out with a boot, catching the dog in the side and eliciting a yelp from it.

He lay still on the floor, and Dean, disregarding John's new welts and scrapes, ran instead to his dog. He gingerly touched his abdomen, and he whimpered again, his eyes staring up trustingly into Dean's. John yelled at his eldest, but his words fell on deaf ears. All Dean'd cared about in that moment was the dog, and for two days straight, he didn't move except to get it water and food.

After the first eighteen hours, John gave up on attempting to move Dean away—he'd tried using force, but had underestimated the power behind Dean's hands and legs, getting only impressive bruises for his efforts. He'd tried yelling that it was past time for them to leave the town, that he'd found another hunt, but that hadn't worked either. Sam had done his best to explain the situation, but John simply couldn't comprehend that they'd allowed "that goddamned mutt into the room like he's some goddamned housetrained _pet_."

With Dean's attention, the dog had gotten better, and although it'd limped, the tongue he ran over Dean's face was enough. As soon as the dog stood up, John pulled Dean onto his feet by his collar and stared into his son's mutinous green eyes.

"We're leaving," he commanded. "_Now_."

"Not without him," said Dean, pointing to the dog. "I'm not leaving him."

"Either you leave the dog, or I leave you."

It was the first and only time Dean told his father he hated him, and the first of two times—the second being when Sam ran away to Flagstaff—John struck him. Not hard (not this time, anyway), but enough to shock his son into submission.

Sam had said a weepy goodbye to the dog and climbed into the Impala without further objection, John following soon after. Somehow, the dog sensed something bad was going down, and sat in front of the door as Dean grabbed his duffel, the normally happy face set into what Dean was only able to describe as defiant, stubborn.

Dean had shoved his way past the dog, willing himself not to shed a single tear or sniffle even once. He forced himself not to look down as the dog pressed against his leg the entire walk to the car. He'd prepared himself to jump in the backseat, but Dean pushed him away, the dog skidding against gravel.

The motel owner had happened to be out doing a cursory check of the rooms that had just been vacated, and did a double-take at the scene. "Hey!" he hollered, confusion written on his face. "Whatcha doin'?"

Dean met the man's frown, wished he hadn't.

"You comin' back, ain'tcha?" the manager asked. "You ain't leavin' 'im, are ya?"

"We're—we have to go," Dean answered.

The manager's face was completely floored then, glancing from the melancholy dog to a melancholy Dean. Though initially he'd been pissed at the dog's barking—and the dog's presence in general—he'd realized in haste that the "man and his dog" adage was a hundred percent on target. So seeing Dean obviously getting ready to skip town, _without_ his canine companion simply didn't compute.

"But ya takin' him, yeah?" persisted the manager. "He wants t'go."

Dean's gaze flickered over to John, and then to a tearful Sam, and then to the dog, and then back to the man. "No," he answered. "T-Take care'a him."

A quick kiss to the dog's nose and Dean scrambled into the car, shutting the door with a creaking slam. As they drove away, leaving dust in their wake, Dean turned around, gazing through the rear window. He watched the dog bay once, and then lie down on the ground, staring after his master, his expression clearly one of wondering what he'd done to make Dean leave.

Sam stared at Dean in half-accusation, half-sadness. "Lemme alone, Sam," whispered Dean, turning away.

Neither brother ever mentioned the dog again.

In fact, now's the first time in twenty-four years that Dean's ever thought about him, figuring that his memory had simply blocked it out. He briefly wonders what happened to it, wonders if the motel manager had done as Dean requested, or if he'd just let it run astray again. If, God forbid, the dog had found a new family who were actually able to keep him. Dean abandons that line of thought with a jaw clench at himself for being so lame.

Instead, he looks back at the photograph of Xander and his Lab, and, with nary a hesitation, removes it from the paper clip and pins it under the visor's mirror. Why, he's not completely sure. He doesn't have the right to the picture, not even close, but hey. If the file's "lost," it'd only make sense for the photo to be, too.

He flips through the crime scene photos, at Xander's body that, if the skin hadn't been too pale, the lips too blue, would have simply looked like he were sleeping. He makes a mental table of the victims, categorizing their injuries and the rest of the vitals in their respective slots, and cements it to his mind.

Closing his eyes for a minute, Xander's smiling face and Xander's dead face juxtaposed together, his heart and his head war. He barely takes time to weigh the pros and cons before peeling out onto the highway, taking the nearest exit, then getting on the road again—this time, M-77 South.

To hell with Special Agent Hotchner. He's got a job to do, and if there's one thing the BAU is gonna learn real fast, it's that you don't get between Dean Winchester and his objectives. You _just don't_.

Ever.

* * *

"_What do you call this place?"_

"_This is Heaven," was the answer._

"_Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "It certainly doesn't look like Heaven, and there's another man down the road who said that place was Heaven."_

"_Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates?"_

"_Yes, it was beautiful."_

"_Nope. That's Hell."_

"_Doesn't it offend you for them to use the name of Heaven like that?"_

"_No. I can see how you might think so, but it actually saves us a lot of time. They screen out people who are willing to leave their best friends behind."_

— Inspired by "All Dogs Go to Heaven," by Earl Hamner, Jr.


	7. Part VII

**As You Are Now, So Once Was I**

_**Part VII

* * *

**_

_April 12, 2017, 10:06 A.M.  
Schoolcraft County Police Department  
Manistique, Michigan_

To say the atmosphere in the conference room is tense would be the understatement of the century. Quite possibly the millennium. The conspicuous absence of Morgan, and the very glacial exit and insubordination of Emily's radiate throughout. They, however, are not remotely the largest elephant in the room.

The elephant being, not unexpectedly, Dean Winchester.

Garcia and Reid glance at each other, trying to see if either has a definitive Plan. Seeing that they don't, they look to Rossi, the authority second only to Hotch that'd at least seemed open to the idea of Dean helping them out. Rossi keeps his gaze firmly on the grain of the old table; not because he doesn't want to reassure the younger two, but because he's not quite sure what he could say or express.

What, that he was considering taking a _murderer_ up on his offer? No matter how innocent Dean postured himself, no matter how much he played up the green eyes and full lips—Rossi thinks that Dean didn't consciously do so, but that old habits die hard—to Garcia and J.J., no matter the intelligence he aimed to exude to pull in Reid, no matter the respectful semi-deference to Hotch. Rossi won't deny that Dean had all the tricks that would convince anyone, and doesn't doubt that, given enough time, he could sway the unit chief, but unfortunately, Dean had sensed his window of opportunity was up.

Rossi wonders what Morgan and Emily are up to, doesn't think it's even _remotely_ in the vicinity of Hotch's wishes, and hopes they haven't gone and done something stupid. It's wishful thinking, and Rossi's a pragmatist, but a little hope never hurt anyone.

J.J., for her part, is busying herself with putting away her handgun, prolonging the movement as much as she can, whiling away the seconds. She has no illusions that Hotch will round on her first, seeing as how she'd been the one to support him fully, and then turned around and backstabbed him. (Of course, she allows, that's how Hotch would see it; it's not how she does.)

Truthfully, she'd been as surprised as everyone else when she granted Dean her agreement. From the moment he walked in, she'd been determined to not only flat-out refuse him, but send his ass straight back to jail. She knew about Dean's charisma, had witnessed it first-hand (albeit at an incredibly subdued level; Dean wasn't exactly a Chatty Cathy back in Illinois), and so knew what to expect.

It was like being T-boned.

One minute, she's stoic media liaison, walls up, gun trained on Dean's insides that were as a result at her mercy, just waiting for one breath from him she didn't like which would award her the opportunity to fire. She'd wanted to shoot someone anyway, after all the aggravation the case brought; Dean was just a convenient, guilt-free target.

The next, Dean's words, the gentle but firm way he orated, the genuine rawness over Xander's death, _everything_, had her finger edging away from the trigger, her hands relaxing on the pistol, sights dropping. The worst part was that there was a nagging part of her brain that was _telling_ her she was being manipulated—no, not manipulated, _won over_—but she'd, for some godforsaken reason, shut it out.

She's not overtly sure what sentence or expression of Dean's switched her allegiance, much less why. No, she admits, that's not true. It was Dean's imploring mention of Xander's age, the unintentional parallel to Henry. Dean didn't know she has a child, didn't know Hotch has a child, and yet J.J. the Mother latched onto Dean's sincere tone of anguished hatred for the monster that did this. It ached for anything that could put away the killer; it wasn't J.J. the FBI Agent, and so was far from rational.

All that part of her saw was a man with quite possibly the brains and intuition to help them, to help give a semblance of closure to a grieving mother, and by God, she wasn't going to compromise that. For all she knew—hell, at this point, it's the unfortunate reality—Dean would spook and go underground again. And since neither Victor Henricksen nor anyone who worked closely with him was around to decipher the late agent's notes (not to mention it'd been _years_ since the Winchester investigation was closed), the probability of catching Dean again would be phenomenally low.

Especially…especially without Sam.

J.J. knows that Dean turned himself in back in 2010 because something happened to his brother—she still doesn't know what that is—but in his most recent arrival, she saw something she hadn't four years ago: _life_.

Admittedly, it didn't look as if Dean was about to go host a neighborhood barbecue, but there was light behind his eyes, there was a certain set to his shoulders, and something she couldn't quite place. She does know for sure, however, that he was much less…_dead_…than he was the last time they met. Then, it was like Dean was only helping them because he didn't have anything else to do, and it was at least something to prevent his brain from turning to mush.

Now, though, _Dean_ had come to _them_, and, moreover, had told them that he'd be willing to go back to prison as soon as they solved the case. The logical, federal portion of her positively _screamed_ that Dean had been a professional conman and that bending people to his will was part of his skills; but the illogical, trusting, spontaneous part of her whispered in her ear that maybe Dean wasn't as bad a dude as he was purported to be. Brought up the fact that he'd been the guy to crack that one case years ago.

And, stupidly, she'd listened to it. (Hell of a time to decide to acquiesce to the devil on her shoulder.) She found herself giving in just as her colleagues had one-by-one, and, surprisingly, had seen the relief in Dean's expression and in the "I am?" he'd asked her. The question was so simple, so childlike, as though he'd asked for an extra piece of pie and was granted one despite that it usually was against the rules.

She brings herself back to the present with a whiplash, forcing herself to stop dwelling on what is obviously the past. Dean's gone, gone to who knows where, and not only had they _let him do it_, but she knows each and every one of them in the room, sans Hotch, had half a mind to go after him. To say, "Dean! Wait up. Have you found something? Please tell us you can help." None of them had—_cowards_, that really, really annoying portion of her brain snickered—but had stayed with their unit chief, watched as Emily and then Morgan left.

Of course, it isn't as easy as it sounds. Considering that they just let their first potentially major big break walk straight out the door to places unknown.

Now, give her some credit: she isn't about to hand Dean a trophy for Man of the Year, and she's most certainly in favor of escorting him to prison. The addendum being, just as Dean had proposed, he help them break the case first. The unbreakable case. The nightmare-inducing case. The case whose victim list now includes a boy not even into puberty yet.

J.J. looks at Hotch steadily, waiting for his eyes to come to hers. Eventually they do, sliding over slowly, the motion implying it's taking everything for him to do just that. "Do you realize what we just did? What _I_ just did?" Hotch asks lowly, the flatness of his voice edging on frightening.

"Sir—" tries Garcia, fingering one of her gaudy rings anxiously.

"I let a serial killer walk right out those doors," Hotch interrupts, staring at J.J. "The bastard broke out of prison, got into a police station undetected, then came into a room full of FBI agents like he owned the place. And what did I do? I let him _go_."

"I wouldn't say _that_," Rossi forwards, shifting in his chair. Hotch looks at him incredulously. A lesser man would have shied away, but Rossi's endured much more than a glare from Aaron Hotchner, however searing it may be. "Some part of you was thinking what we all were: that he might be able to provide insight into this. That's not exactly worthy of capital punishment, Aaron."

Hotch is having none of it, the deeply ingrained principles that were instilled in him from childhood abuse, cemented in law school, and maintained in the Agency at a forefront. While the others are in different stages of seeing the gray areas, Hotch is firmly set in the black and white opinion.

"I don't care that he helped us four years ago," seethes Hotch, attempting and not quite succeeding to keep his voice unnoticeable to the milling cops outside. "He didn't have anywhere to go; there was no reason not to help. Now, he's free, and he can give us whatever information he wants, whether it's true or not. Hell, he's probably _working with_ the unsub, and we let him stride right out into the public again."

Garcia scowls like she'd taken personal offense. "All due respect, sir, I don't think that's fair," she pipes up tersely. "He might've been accused of crimes in the past, but I've been working with all of you for a while now, and didn't see any of your guys' telltale signs."

"You haven't had the best track record with sensing if pretty faces are homicidal or not," snaps Hotch before he realizes the implications of his words.

This time, Garcia flinches as harshly as though Hotch had literally punched her in the face. She'd never—_never_—thought he'd say such a thing, not to her, not after she'd been _shot_. She'd learned her lesson, thanks very much, and she hadn't thought in a million years they'd _blame_ her for what Colby'd done. She blamed herself enough; _they'd_ never passed judgment on her.

"I—you—how—" She can't string two words together, and so, not seeing any of her colleagues' now incensed faces, she pulls herself and her purse out of the chair and hurries out the door, curled hair bouncing.

Hotch runs a hand over his face, his eyes closed, like if he shut the colors away, he could pretend he'd never said that. Not to Garcia. Never her. He hears a couple chairs scraping, and then footsteps passing him, one set hovering for a second before leaving.

So he's surprised when he feels a tentative hand on his shoulder, the touch barely permeating his tailored suit. He opens his eyes to see J.J.'s taut but somehow concerned face looking intently at him.

"Hotch…" she starts, not completely sure where she was going with it.

"I know," he replies. "I know."

"No, you _don't_ know," she objects hotly, for the immediacy not seeing her boss, but rather a man who'd just made a very, _very_ ill decision. "Garcia was just trying to make a point—"

"What, that Dean Winchester is suddenly a good Samaritan with no ulterior motives whatsoever? J.J., come on."

J.J. shrugs, trying not to get angry. "No one said he didn't have ulterior motives," she qualifies. "Just that…well, so what if he does? If it means we can catch this guy…"

"When did our expertise and work become less than adequate?" Hotch challenges, daring her to say different.

She doesn't choose to mention that there'd been another time where they'd temporarily lost faith in their abilities and had to resort to other means. "When a little boy got murdered, that's when," she says instead. "Just pretend he isn't Dean _Winchester_, but just plain…Dean. An outside source that wants to catch this guy just as much as we do."

"Can't do that, J.J.," Hotch replies after a second. "I already let him walk out of here like the smug son of a bitch he is, and I'm sure as hell not going to _ask_ for _his_ help."

J.J. stares at him. "You're not even going to _consider_—"

"No!" Hotch interrupts sharply. "No, I'm not. You may have become indecisive on our abilities, but I haven't. I'm not going to go to a killer and admit that we, behavior analysts with the FBI, need his, a mentally deranged fugitive, assistance."

"What's changed?" J.J. asks, honestly curious. "Why'd you agree last time?"

Hotch pauses, dropping his shoulders. "Because…because then there was no one to answer to," he concedes. "Because then there wasn't a boy's mother to explain how we reach a conclusion."

"So you're just scared to tell her who we had to rely on, even if he's a convict?" J.J. clarifies stiffly. "She's not going to care, Hotch, not as long as we get the guy in the end. Trust me."

She's still not sure why she's defending Dean so much, to her _superior_, but every moment she's having more confidence; not in Dean necessarily, but in Emily and Morgan's determination. They're far from stupid or impulsive people, and so if _they_ have enough trust in Dean to use him for this investigation, she figures the least the rest of them can do is give the guy a chance. Particularly given Dean's track record. (By which she means his track record for solving unsolvable cases, not, you know, the _other stuff_.)

"That," Hotch concedes, "and the fact that it isn't like Dean's safely in jail anymore. He busted out, stole God knows how many things, and strolled into a P.D. That isn't a good check on his record."

J.J. laughs despite herself. "Ever think _why_ he escaped?" she prompts. Hotch doesn't answer; more because he wants to know what she thinks than what she expects him to say. "What if he escaped because he wanted to help so much but couldn't from where he was? You heard him—he said he saw my press conference. Obviously he brought something from it."

"It was just an excuse," says Hotch. "People like that, they'll use anything to get out of jail."

It's something J.J. can't really _disagree_ with. In fact, a mere ten minutes ago, she was fully in Hotch's line of thinking. "I know that's how Dean profiles," she says. She's aware no one was actively profiling the man, but it was an idle reflex of all of them nonetheless. Granted, not like Dean was all that difficult to do so. Judging externally, anyway.

"I just think that there might be something else there. Morgan and Emily certainly seem to. Are you saying you're suddenly not trusting them?"

"Of course not," replies Hotch, legitimately offended. "But that doesn't mean I can't question their choices. It's understandable—we're all stressed, and they evidently felt this was the right direction to go in—but the farthest thing from how we should approach this investigation."

Pursing her lips, J.J. leans against the edge of the table. "Hotch, forgive me, but I'm not sure even you were heart-and-soul against this."

"Beg your pardon?"

"If you really wanted to stop him and send him back to prison, you could've. You had a gun on your, and even if you didn't, it didn't look like Dean had all intention to bolt," she says. "But you didn't move."

"It…was a moment of weakness."

J.J. laughs, even though the circumstances are anything but funny. "Whatever," she replies. It's pretty obvious she's not convincing Hotch anytime soon. "We won't go after him if that's what you want. But if another person dies and Dean might've been able to help but we didn't consider talking to him…"

"J.J.," Hotch says in surprise. She'd rarely spoken against him so candidly, and he definitely is not a fan of the new behavior. "Don't. if anything, Dean would've hindered this whole thing. We're much better off without his input."

J.J. throws up her hands in defeat. Ultimately, regardless of how much anyone may not like it, it's Hotch's call. "Fine, we'll do it your way," she sighs.

Shooting a look at him, of which neither is absolutely positive the content, J.J. then departs the room, leaving Hotch alone to wonder just how the hell Dean had, in a measly two minutes, managed to turn his entire team against him.

* * *

_April 12, 2017, 10:02 A.M.  
Sunny Shores Restaurant  
Manistique, Michigan_

"So how should we do this?" Emily asks Morgan across the table, fiddling with the straw in her water as they wait for their breakfasts.

She hadn't wanted to stop, just wanted to forge ahead, but Morgan's stomach had made the decision (in spite of his "Of _course_ that's what a diner in this town would be called."), and they chose the only restaurant-ish abode in the place. The waitress was nice, if kind of nosy—seemed like everyone knew about the investigation—but after they made it clear, in as kind terms as they could, that they wouldn't tell her anything, she bustled away with their orders for the chef's special.

They still aren't quite able to figure out just what the "chef's special" _is_, but Nadine the waitress assured them it was to die for, and when in Rome, right?

"You mean, how do we find an experienced criminal in a maze of Midwest byways that we don't know from a hole in the wall but he does?"

"If you're going to be so negative, go back to Hotch," Emily snits irritatedly.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of Hotch…"

Emily puts her head on the table with a dull _clunk_. "Ugh, don't remind me," she mutters miserably.

Chuckling, Morgan sips his coffee. "Aww, don't be so hard on yourself, Prentiss," he says lightly. "I'm almost eighty percent sure your ass won't get fired faster than this town can be driven through."

Without looking up, Emily dips her fingers into her water and flicks the droplets at him. "Not. Helping," she grumbles.

Luckily, Morgan's spared from answering—and, more importantly, choosing an answer that wouldn't cause him to get himself skewered—by the diner doors opening to reveal not just Garcia, but Reid and an only somewhat reluctant Rossi. Morgan shoves Emily's elbow, and she snaps her head up, ready to chuck the salt shaker at him, when she catches sight of her three co-workers.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, any ire she might have held overshadowed by her astoundment.

Rossi looks faintly amused by Reid's squirming (Garcia not so much, since she'd known about Dean virtually from the get-go), and accepts the role of de facto spokesman. "Turns out we're all suffering a psychotic break and so are willing enough to help you find him."

"Dean," Emily says reflexively. "It's not going to kill you to say his name."

"Testy, isn't she?" Rossi comments to Morgan.

Who holds his hands up defensively. "Don't look at me, man," he says. "I like my body intact."

Emily glares, but to Morgan's relief, her gun remains securely in its holster. "What changed your minds?" she inquires to Rossi and Reid. Garcia, she notices, is uncharacteristically silent and has a poorly-hidden expression of hurt on her face, but Emily gathers that this is neither the time nor the place to bring whatever it is up. "Would've thought you both would be behind Hotch on this. You know, Dean's being a serial killer of his own and all."

Rossi shrugs, the movement more casual than normal, and which causes Emily suspicion. "You backed me when I said I could use my 'contacts' to solve a case, and they weren't exactly orthodox," he says. "Least I can do is return the favor."

"Not that I'm not grateful, but you gave that favor to me four years ago."

"I'd take what I can get if I were you," warns Morgan.

To deaf ears, Emily not remotely acknowledging that he'd spoken. "Call it a…call it that I'm betting on the long shot—incredibly shady long shot—here."

Emily thinks about objecting to that, but truthfully, he's right on target. Even _she_ isn't showing Dean all her cards, so to speak. "So…you really want to undermine Hotch—probably J.J. as well—just to gamble on the 'shady long shot'?"

This time Reid gives his position. "Murderers are the best profilers," he recites, the phrase being one they'd all used on more than one occasion. "I'm betting Dean's as good a poster child as any."

Emily gestures next to herself and her partner. "We could use some new ideas," she allows.

As Rossi starts to speak, Emily and Morgan look at each other, their faces saying nothing, but both thinking the same:

_This might maybe just work out…

* * *

_

_April 12, 2017, 10:45 A.M.  
Manistique, Michigan_

Dean parks just off U.S. 2, finding as obscure a spot as he can, and starts hiking in, despite himself relishing the stringent but clear some-sort-of-tree-scented air. The address being in Xander's file Dean makes his way down Cattaraugus Street to search out the house. Given that Manistique is no N.Y.C., he aims to use the same alias, not wanting to risk a "Hey…aren't you…?" situation.

Dean almost misses it, the house nestled behind some bushes and the street number in faded letters on the beaten mailbox. Having left everything but the stats sheet in the Jeep, Dean checks the address to be sure, and then tucks the sheet into his jacket.

He walks through the low gate and up the steps, ringing the doorbell. It takes longer than Dean would've expected for the door to be opened, during which time he perfects his bereaved best-friend-of-Kari façade. Simon Kirke, he remembers at the last second.

"Can I help you?" comes the greeting, a woman who Dean'd place mid-thirties leaning against the door like it's the only thing holding her up.

He'd expected the grandmother, since the overheard police report had said Xander was staying with her, but he assumes the mother—wherever she'd been—had returned immediately. Not that Dean is assigning blame.

Which makes him almost reassess the manipulation when he sees her. She looks frail, even though Dean's sure she's normally of healthy structure, her hair mousy and lank, eyes sunken and gray. Even if he hadn't known who she was, he would have immediately pegged her as a mother who'd lost a child. Heaven knows Dean's seen enough of them to know the type.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm Simon. Simon Kirke," he says, by pure reflex making his voice less hard and gravelly than usual. "I'm—I mean, I…_was_—Kari Jansen's best friend."

The woman frowns briefly in confusion before recollection enters her expression. "Oh," she says flatly. "Yes. She's the one before…before…"

Dean nods, unable to be so inhumane as to force her to say her deceased son's name. "I was…I was wondering if could talk to you," he says, slathering on some timidity.

"About what?" she asks, a veil of suspicion rising.

Even though it was already soldered, Dean amps up what Sam had once termed the "Look-how-cute-and-innocent-and-not-smartassy-I-am-come-hug-me" expression. Dean hadn't appreciated the name—Sam had had a colorful bruise on his bicep for two days—but apparently it was true enough, because it'd had a ninety-nine percent success rate.

"I don't know," he says softly. "I guess I was just hoping that there might be something that…that Kari and your son had in common to…to figure out what monster could be doing this."

The woman's suspicion increases, and Dean silently curses Sam. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, ma'am," he replies. "'M just Kari's friend. God, _was_ Kari's friend…"

Dean looks down at her, and takes back his _Damn it, Sam!_ thought when she opens the door a little wider, allowing him entrance. "Come in," she says with a sigh. Stepping onto the foyer carpet, the woman holds out her hand. "I'm Jenelle. Nathanson."

Dean shakes it gently, and rubs the back of his neck. (So he hadn't thought this entirely through—sue him.) Jenelle retreats into what Dean assumes is the living room, and returns with a dark wood picture frame. After a moment's hesitation, she passes it to Dean, who takes it with genuine surprise.

He stares at it, and tries not to make his reaction too strong as he looks at the recent photo of Xander. The boy's covered head-to-toe in mud but grinning widely, the same dog Dean'd seen in the other picture at his feet, tail mid-wag, and a slightly deflated soccer ball in its mouth.

Dean hands it back to Jenelle reverently. "Bet he liked the dog a lot, huh?"

Jenelle's mouth turns upwards the tiniest bit. "Yeah," she affirms. "He loved that damn mutt."

"What happened to it?" Dean asks, despite himself. Everything he'd ever heard and experienced about Labs said they were always right at the door when it was knocked on or rung.

Even the small smile Jenelle had given now drops. "Up in X—in—in his room," she says, once more unable to say Xander's name. "Hasn't left there since—he won't eat or drink, or anything. My husband called the vet. Supposed to be here tomorrow."

Dean gets the sense that she'd keep on about the dog if he doesn't stop her now, and while in the past, he and Sam would latch onto small talk like that to establish a connection with the person, he doesn't have the time now. Besides, he doesn't have to be a vet to know the dog is Little Ann personified. (Just, hopefully, with a better outcome.)

He hands Jenelle back the frame, and she receives it gratefully. Then she takes a look at Dean, as if she'd never actually realized she was talking to someone. "You're not from around here, are you?" she asks.

Dean shifts uncomfortably. "No, ma'am," he replies. "I'm from Independence. What, uh—I mean, am I that obvious?"

Had the situation been anything else, Jenelle would have chuckled. As it is… "Everyone 'round here dresses a certain way, holds 'emselves a certain way. You don't."

Looking at himself, Dean takes in his jeans, boots, plain gray tee shirt and green jacket with perplexity. Jenelle takes pity on him—even given everything—and tugs at the jacket and shirt.

"It's either plaid or hunting gear in the U.P.," she says. "You stand out."

"Guess the saleswoman did have it in for me then," comments Dean, making a mental note to give Emily a big "I told you so." (Which he then immediately recounts, since if the FBI doesn't want his help, then by God, he won't give it to them.)

Jenelle sends a strange side smile. "I wouldn't say that," she remarks. "I'm sure Amelia simply thought you would look better in these."

It takes Dean a second before he gets Jenelle's meaning, and he straightens his shoulders. "She always like that?" he asks, thinking of the saleswoman who was, to put it plainly, quite handsy. Granted, ten years ago, he would have welcomed it, but…the Apocalypse…and then Sam…whatever meager flirting he may have done wasn't remotely sincere. Dean knows what Sam would say if he saw him now, but that's moot right now.

Sam's gone. And he ain't coming back. The sooner he accepts that, the better.

(It's what he tells himself, anyhow.)

"Local boys don't seem to mind," answers Jenelle. She pauses, and studies Dean's face. "You don't look like you've slept for weeks, Simon."

Dean starts to answer, then gets an idea—albeit one that makes him cringe at the sleaziness of it. "Yeah, I've been havin' nightmares for a while," he replies. It's not entirely false, but not the truth, either. He's had nightmares, but not _nightmares_. (In the past few days.)

Jenelle nods, like she knows exactly what Dean's talking about. Which, Dean concedes, she probably does. "I'm afraid to sleep," she admits, folding her arms around herself. "Especially since…since_ his_ grandmother said he was having them right before…I just…I feel like…"

"Like having them would make you weak," Dean finishes, having felt the exact same thing. Whether it was with the dog on his bed, or whether he had a bed to himself, he'd always withheld his nightmares. Or, well, as much as he could. He never could risk tarnishing his invincible cover with Sam. And, for the most part, he'd always been effective. Until he came back from Hell, but that's really neither here nor there.

Jenelle looks at him curiously, but doesn't comment on how Dean can relate. "Yes," she affirms.

Then Dean remembers the other part of her statement. About Xander having had nightmares also before he died. As had Kari. Now, everyone has bad dreams, but…Dean's skepticism and hunter instincts kick in with full force.

"Did she happen to say what they were about?" he asks nonchalantly.

Jenelle shakes her head. "Not really," she says. "Just that they were really, really bad. I didn't think…"

Dean hastens to put a hand on her forearm. "It's not your fault," he says. "None of this is."

She looks as if she's going to cry, which Dean takes as a cue for him to leave. "I'm sorry for intruding, ma'am," he says. "I should go."

"You—you can s-stay, I'm s-sorry for—"

"What?"

She shrugs (though it could have just been a sob). "I sent X-X-Xander's grandmother away," she explains. "I wanted to deal by m-myself, and…you kind of remind me of-of him."

Dean doesn't bother to hide his surprise as his eyebrows shoot up. "Of Xander?" he asks in shock.

Jenelle's lip trembles, but it's a "yes," Dean sees that much. "You just seem so much…"

Dean feels himself being sucked in, which he knows he can't allow. "I should be heading back to Independence," he lies. "I've done enough damage here."

He heads towards the door, but then stops. Through the front window, he sees two black SUVs drive up, and some very familiar people inside. _Oh, shit…_ he curses in his head.

"Even just an hour?" he hears behind him, and he turns, Jenelle's face tear-streaked and red.

Feeling awful, but seeing the SUVs park, he feels his heart clench in self-hatred. "Maybe a short rest before I hit the highway," he says quietly.

Jenelle nods, her lip between her teeth, and points upstairs. "There's a guest room second door on the right. Please…stay as long as you c—need…"

Dean knows she's just acting out of grief, and that what he's doing is astonishingly inappropriate, but he hears the FBI's footsteps, and he's out of time. Putting his hand briefly on Jenelle's shoulder and giving her a quick but completely sincere thank-you, he takes the stairs three at a time, only pausing for a second when he sees what must have been Xander's room on the left, wholly untouched.

Sighing, he rushes into the room Jenelle had described, and shuts the door just as the front one opens.

* * *

_"__No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true."  
— Nathaniel Hawthorne_


End file.
